Wonderful author of the Bestselling Haworth family saga, Judith Barrow, is launching her latest novel. The Memory explores a ‘Mother and daughter tied together by shame and secrecy, love and hate.’ I can’t resist books with secrets and know Judith is an expert at weaving these into her narratives. I invited Judith to tell me more about the background to The Memory because I know it is close to her heart and experience.
Much of the background of The Memory is taken from my own memories of when I was carer at different times in my life. With the support of my husband I’ve looked after two aunts. One who lived with us for thirty years before dementia took hold of her – and then, at the same time, her aunt, who came to us when the disease first made its presence known and she had no one else. The idea was that we found a care home for her in Pembrokeshire where we live, but she cried when we left her there. So we brought her home. Physically robust, she lived with us for twelve years. We were four generations under one roof and, looking back I don’t think it did our children any harm. Indeed I think it taught them empathy. And finding the humour in the chaos of living with someone with dementia far outweighed the sadness.
I truly believe that the role of carer for a loved and respected relative with dementia is something that takes over both lives with unseen stealth. The disease steals away the person who affected until they gradually disappear. The carer increasingly and sometimes automatically takes on the role until their whole life revolves around the caring. And, mostly, it’s a mantle that’s taken on willingly.
But it’s hard.
During the years I was a carer I met others whose lives, despite help from any professional bodies, had become a constant round of tiredness and stress. And it was only when the trust was built up between us that the word ‘resentment’ would sometimes be voiced. But spoken of with shame, as though it was a reaction that had no place. After all, most of them were caring for a person who had been a constant presence in their lives as a cherished parent, relative, companion, partner. It was the carer’s time to give back the love – wasn’t it? They had no right to sometimes feel resentful. Or so they believed. I remember the relief to be able to admit it, to relax, to know I wasn’t alone. And to share stories of the ridiculous and bizarre situations we found ourselves in.
I’ve tried to show those two contrasting emotions in The Memory; love and yet resentment. But with Irene Hargreaves, the protagonist, hatred often rears its ugly head. All because on one dreadful memory.
As a child, I escaped to a place known as Pots and Pans in Saddleworth. Pots and Pans, quite high, windy and isolated, is the memorial where the Remembrance Services are held. I used to climb with my first dog when I was eleven to get away from home. It’s where I used to chunter on about the unfairness of anything that was happening. It’s a memorial where memories are kept and/ or shared to the wind. Well, that’s what I always thought. The dog was also a great listener! This is the place where the bones of my books were constructed.
The Memory is a stand alone book about a woman, Irene Hargreaves, who is the career for her mother. One a dark evening in 2001 Irene stands by the side of her mother’s bed and knows it is time. For more than fifty years she has carried a secret around with her; a haunting memory she hasn’t even confided to her husband, Sam, a man she has loved and trusted all her life. But now she must act before he arrives home…
About Judith:
Judith Barrow,originally from Saddleworth, a group of villages on the edge of the Pennines,has lived in Pembrokeshire, Wales, for forty years.
She has an MA in Creative Writing with the University of Wales Trinity St David’s College, Carmarthen. BA (Hons) in Literature with the Open University, a Diploma in Drama from Swansea University and She has had short stories, plays, reviews and articles, published throughout the British Isles and has won several poetry competitions..
She is a Creative Writing tutor for Pembrokeshire County Council and holds private one to one workshops on all genres.
https://www.judithbarrow-author.co.uk/
https://judithbarrow.blogspot.com
https://twitter.com/judithbarrow77
https://www.facebook.com/judith.barrow.3
https://www.honno.co.uk/authors/b/judith-barrow/
Please see all my guests’ posts at Mail from the Creative Community and my website and blog at JessieCahalin.com.
A copy of my novel is available here.
Finally, I felt the uneven cobbles beneath my feet, and the heels of my boots struggled to grip the ground, it was obvious that I had reached the famous medieval street. I reached a building that would have looked at home in a museum. Outside the building was painted black and the window reminded me of a shop one would imagine in a Dickensian novel. My imagination had taken me to the wrong era, but having researched John’s book, my mind was full of history. Instantly, John greeted me with his warm smile and welcoming manner. He was looking very relaxed in his cords and checked shirt.
John: Ah yes, I started to research my Family Tree fifty years ago. I was lucky to find transcribed letters from my great, great grandfather on one side of the family, and on the other I found that my great great grandmother was related to the Rochforts of Belvedere, in Ireland. I had to research this treasure and along the way, I came across some juicy relatives – and a story that was crying out to be told.
Jessie: Why should I keep your book in my handbag?
We agreed that the spirit of the woman seems to beckon you. From a distance, the sculpture looks like a projected image – prompting: is she real or imaginary? As you approach, the sculpture is flat – like the silhouette on a stamp. It is a beautiful form that seemed to appeal to women rather than men, on that day. Despite the grey sky, the light was adding a mystical quality that gave the sculpture an air of confidence. What this suggesting something about the modern woman?
I decided that the steps were a sculpture but my husband was sceptical at this point; he had been influenced by our fellow Yorkshire folk. A plaque marked the spot as if to reassure me. It felt as if someone was presenting a hopeful message about the climb. Pardon the pun, but I went a step further and commented that to me they represented the struggle for independent authors. But that was my interpretation at that point in time: I was influenced by my emotions, experience, the weather and, of course, ‘arty farty nonsense’.
I wonder if you would be able to spot the sculptures that instigated our discussions? Would you agree with the interpretations? Did someone deliberately construct a place when art can be read according to mood, weather and other factors? I don’t know the answer to this but invite you to have a look. Perhaps some of the questions should be placed next to the sculptures? Maybe, there will be a sculpture of a handbag in the future, or possibly a sculpture constructed of books.
