The Things That Stay With Us
His lines, my thread, their encouragement.
I love my ten minutes in the car after school drop-off and before work. Sometimes it feels like my moment of freedom, listening to my music.
Music often transports me to another time, bringing back the feelings and memories I associate with a particular song. I can be right back at my grandma's house with my cousins, at a family dinner with my auntie, on holiday with my mum, or singing and dancing around the table with my dad and brothers.
Listening to High by Lighthouse Family, I was suddenly back in the nineties, perhaps ten or eleven years old. I remembered something my auntie once said to me as an adult: “You come from a long line of strong women.”
I never stopped to ask her what she meant, but her words have stayed with me. I think of her often when I listen to music. She was my Ab Fab auntie — fun, carefree, smart and sophisticated. Bold and self-conscious all at once. I looked up to her enormously, and there was always a special bond between us.
As I thought about what she'd said, Janet Jackson's Together Again came on next. I know I should probably be listening to something a little cooler, but one of the things I love most about music is how it can capture feelings we can't always put into words.
The song brought a tear and a smile as I thought about all the women I've loved, and how much of them still lives on in the things I surround myself with, the way I dress and the person I've become. As I drove, my mind naturally began to remember how it felt to be surrounded by these women.
I remember following my grandma through John Lewis in the run-up to Christmas, her deep aubergine coat billowing behind her as she walked with gusto. Her warmth was always palpable.
On long summer days, she'd often wear a striped long-sleeved T-shirt, white cigarette trousers and espadrilles. Unfussy, barely styled, yet somehow so chic and glamorous.
As my mind wandered, I thought of my nanny, my mum's mum, and a note she'd once written to me that simply said, “Thank you for being you.”
I always felt completely accepted by her. We spent lots of time together, just the two of us, playing cards, cooking and knitting. Years later, she even helped me with a piece of knitting for my degree. I remember her laughing at the rather unconventional way I'd worked out the pattern pieces.
Her influence was quiet and reassuring. I can hear her voice now, laughing as I pinched something from a plate before helping her take it to the dining table. She always seemed to appreciate that I would do things my own way, have a go and figure it out.
Tina Arena's Chains was the next song I wanted to put on, thinking of my mum. Forthright, strong, a proper grown-up, but also running around the block past my grandma's, cheering in her Italy football T-shirt when they scored a goal. Oh, and the VB bob.
My mum's style is predominantly classic, but she loves fashion and has always moved with the times rather than followed trends. Her makeup is natural; a pink lipstick means she's dressed up. The night before my wedding, she wore a simple top, sheer crochet trousers and heels. Walking with purpose, confidence and a sense of fun.
I love my mum's sense of daring, and her encouragement has always been there. And while my style is nothing like hers, I do love to dare. When something feels too right to be wrong, I just can't help wanting to push it.
She's not one to be caught on the dance floor, unlike my other auntie. Dungarees, chunky shoes and a sense of fun. She took me to my first gig when I was nine — Take That at Earl's Court.
I was shy and quiet, and sometimes I wonder if I still am. I wore denim dungaree shorts over a little white short-sleeved body and canvas lace-up pumps with a small heel.
I remember Never Forget was the last song. As I watched my auntie and uncle clapping and dancing, I knew that if I didn't join in, I'd miss my chance. So I climbed onto my chair to be the same height as all the adults and clapped and danced along.
I still remember the rush as the three of us ran down the stairwell to jump on the Tube and head home.
I wonder how much of the woman I am today began with the relationships I had growing up. How each of these women nurtured something already within me that helps me recognise parts of myself today.
I find myself carrying little pieces of those times with me, in my home, my style and the way I move through the world.
I wonder whether we all carry something of the people we've loved and who've mattered to us. In the things we choose, the things we keep, the places we go or simply the way we do things. Sometimes without even realising where that sense of familiarity began.
