Scribbles of a Mad Woman in Her Dressing Gown

Author’s note

My mother bought me a ream of paper because she believed I had a book in me. Something to say. I lost her before putting pen to paper. But I’ve never lost her belief in me. I don’t think this book would exist if she hadn’t given me that first ream of paper.

Some of you might recognise a scene or a character in a story. It is, after all, my own life that I draw on for inspiration. But please remember these are stories. Pieces of fiction. I’ve woven together random images and thoughts and moments to create something new. Something that’s meant to go beyond its raw materials. Just because you recognise one detail doesn’t mean any other detail in that story is true.

Happy reading!

Glynis Scrivens

Part I: Recipe for Life

What You See Is Who You Are

An elderly woman held a young stranger’s arm to support herself as she crossed the street.

He smilingly obliged, seeing in her a reflection of his grandmother.

She saw the willing help she’d prayed for.

Her grandson felt slighted, seeing another given preference.

Her son saw implied criticism of his negligence.

The woman’s daughter saw a possible thief.

The monk saw his student practicing loving kindness.

A younger woman watching saw a reason not to offer help, and hurried on.

And in the skies above, the All-Seeing One watched – free of human blinkers.

The Best Cobweb in the World

Ten-year-old Jessie sat on the carpet by her grandmother’s side, arranging balls of wool. Reds, blues, greens, purples.

Look at my rainbow, Grandma. Her face was glowing.

Edith looked up from the shawl she was knitting. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She couldn’t help smiling. How wonderful it was to finally be able to share her delight in the rich hues and soft tweedy texture of her favourite Shetland wools. None of her sons had shown any interest.

Will you knit me a rainbow shawl one day, Grandma? She held the balls up to her soft cheeks and blue eyes.

What a picture, Edith thought. I can do something better than that, Jessie, she said. I can teach you how to make one for yourself.

The school holidays flew by and all too soon Jessie was back at school in Glasgow, an hour’s drive away. Proudly taking with her a brightly coloured scarf, knitted in plain stitch. It sagged in the middle, and the sides were uneven, where she’d lost a few stitches and then added others. But she’d made it herself and Edith felt that was more important than it looking perfect.

Edith was sitting by her fireside, wearing her shawl the following winter when a sudden sharp pain in her chest tore her from the farm and her family. It took only moments.

She gasped. The transition she’d feared more and more in recent years had actually happened. And truth be told, it’d been far less terrible than she’d imagined.

Eighty-four years on the farm, and now this.

She looked around her. It wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Not that she’d had any specific ideas. But it was such a surprise to find herself so mobile. She could be at the farm, enjoying the view from the hill, then close her eyes, and here she was in Glasgow. Quite extraordinary.

They save the best until last, she thought happily. It’d been so difficult to get about in recent years, with her rheumatism and her bad legs. She couldn’t resist the impulse to spread her wings… now that she had such a fine pair. She stroked them lovingly. Soft and fluffy to the touch, but wonderfully powerful. What a blessing they were.

She was so busy visiting all the places and people she’d known and loved during her lifetime, that she missed her own funeral. Never mind. She’d been to so many funerals during her lifetime, surely she could be excused this once?

The wake, on the other hand, was lively and heart-warming, a true celebration of her life. She listened with tears and pride as her sons and friends gave thanks for all the ways she’d enriched their lives.

Yet perhaps the most magical moment came when she found Jessie upstairs alone, exploring her knitting cupboard. To see her lovingly fingering the soft balls of wool made her feel that part of her was living on, in this young girl.

Jessie gently lifted up the shawl and held it up to the light. It’s the best cobweb in the world, she whispered. And you were the best grandmother. She buried her face in the comforting warmth, breathing in the lavender scent of the cupboard. Then she wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and went downstairs. Edith would never forget that precious moment.

She found herself reminiscing long after everyone had gone home. In fact she lost all sense of time. What with one thing and another, several decades slipped by without her being aware of it.

Until one morning she willed herself back at the farm. She wasn’t sure at first whether time had moved backwards or forwards. A woman was sitting in her favourite chair, knitting a rainbow shawl. Surely this wasn’t Jessie? But there was no mistaking the twinkle in those blue eyes or the rosiness of the cheeks.

And she’d become a skilful knitter.

Edith smiled contentedly as she realised who this shawl was for.

Jessie was expecting a baby.

Kindred Spirits

Make yourself a dress in your own colours.

Ellen sat up sleepily to write down the words. They puzzled her. If only she could remember more of the handwritten list Robert had shown her in her dream. He’d written down things he wanted her to do for her birthday. There were about a dozen items. One was to go to a concert. Or was it an exhibition? She couldn’t be sure. But there was no doubt about the dress. He’d read it out loud to her from his list, pointing to the words to make sure they stuck in her mind.

And then he’d shown her samples of shot taffeta in a range of gleaming evening colours. She remembered seeing delicately woven gold fabric. Fit for a princess, she thought. The kind of gossamer Cinderella had worn to the ball.

Was Robert playing fairy godmother to her? Rescuing her from the dreariness that’d become her everyday life?

There’d been a darkness since she’d lost him. Hard to define but always there, smothering the light. An envelope of sorrow that she wore, day and night.

She rubbed her eyes, hoping it’d help her wake up. And that’s when she remembered the other puzzling thing about her dream. Robert had been wearing an evening suit. Robert, who never dressed up.

How handsome he’d looked. As though it was his wedding day.

And he’d looked much younger. About forty.

She couldn’t recall him ever looking more handsome. Or more pleased to see her.

Even in her dream, she’d been surprised to see him.

He’d suddenly appeared when she was talking with her friend, Linda. One moment she was listening to Linda recounting a problem, the next, Robert was leaning on the counter smiling at her.

Linda and her problems had flown out of her head.

Light-hearted, she’d looked into his loving face and wrapped her arms around him. Nothing else existed at that moment.

He’d drawn her to him, as he always did. She’d felt the strength of his arms and melted into his chest.

If only this moment could last, she’d thought. Being back in Robert’s arms, feeling the love that always radiated from him.

She’d missed him terribly these past eighteen months.

And she was aware of all this while she was dreaming.

Somehow, she was both in the dream and looking on. Enjoying his embrace, but realising he was gone. It only made it all the sweeter.

Which was why it was important to write down these words. They were evidently significant.

She fossicked about for her diary. These words would only be lost if she wrote them on a scrap of paper. Like yesterday’s to-do list that she didn’t find until bedtime.

I guess this is Robert’s to-do list for me, she whispered, as she wrote the words. She added concert? underneath.

She looked at the photograph she kept by her bed. Robert was smiling at her, one daughter on each side.

It was lovely to see you, she said softly. She wondered whether his spirit was still in her room. For surely this had been a visit? And she’d only just woken up, so perhaps…

A half-smile played on her lips as she decided he might still be around.

What would you say, Robert, if you were sitting up in bed beside me?

Ellen smiled as she realised exactly what Robert would’ve said.

It must be nearly coffee time.

Good idea, she thought. It’ll clear my brain. She slipped her dressing gown on and padded out to the kitchen, still groggy with sleep.

On the shelf above her cupboards, the stovetop espresso gleamed back at her. Robert always wanted real coffee.

She ground the beans dreamily, inhaling the intoxicating rich aroma. It’d been a few weeks since she’d made the effort to have percolated coffee. She only made it for company these days.

Maybe she should change that? Only the best for my Ellen, Robert had always said.

Tomorrow she’d make herself real coffee again. And every other tomorrow.

She hadn’t been aware until now that this was something she’d allowed to slip.

Sitting up in bed later, sipping the heady brew, Ellen felt a small cloud lifting from her mind.

The envelope had been slit open a fraction and a beam of light had been allowed in.

When she’d showered and dressed, she sprayed herself with Romance, his favourite perfume.

Another tentative step.

Another small beam of light.

The phone rang, dragging her back to reality.

Linda’s voice sounded troubled. As it often did. I need your advice on another problem, she began.

Ellen listened as her friend complained about a neighbour who’d heavily pruned a flowering vine that grew on their dividing fence.

Normally she’d allow Linda to talk herself out. But today she didn’t want the next hour to pass in the usual way. She felt herself diluting, the new light ebbing.

So she interrupted after five minutes.

You should invite Henry in for a pot of tea and talk through your differences, she suggested. Maybe he isn’t aware how you feel about this.

There was a shocked silence.

Before Linda could resume, Ellen added, Must fly now. I’m going shopping this morning and want to catch the nine o’clock bus.

She’d decided on the spur of the moment to use some of Robert’s superannuation on a new sewing machine. Something he’d often suggested. Her old machine had stood her in good stead over the years, but would need a major overhaul if she wanted it to do anything complicated. Like sewing an evening dress in the kind of fabric Robert had shown her. She’d baulked at the expense of repairing her old machine, and she’d shied away from learning how to use the new ones. Yet this wasn’t the real Ellen, was it? The girl Robert had married all those years ago had been a spirited creature, willing to throw her heart at the world and laughing in the face of misfortune.

For a brief moment, as she walked into the sewing centre, Ellen felt a rekindling of that spirit. It was like glimpsing an old friend.

Then a sales girl approached and she felt defensive again. These machines scared her.

You’ll want one of the computerised models. Michelle, according to her name tag, seemed alarmingly unaware of Ellen’s love-hate relationship with technology.

Nothing complicated, Ellen began.

Michelle sat her down at a large table, in front of a small white plastic machine. It didn’t seem nearly as sturdy as her machine at home.

This is the one we sell to the local high school for home science classes, Michelle explained. It’s easy to learn how to use it, believe me. I used it at school last year myself. And she started pointing out the special buttonhole feature.

Ellen felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. These same schoolgirls also knew how to set up blogs and websites. It was unrealistic to compare her with this new generation.

Is there a beginner’s model? Ellen asked. She flinched as she accidentally bit her bottom lip. How had she become so self-effacing and hesitant? She’d been a dressmaker for years. Until she’d married Robert.

Michelle patted her hand. It felt reassuring.

I’ll give you free lessons on whichever machine you choose, she said.

Ellen released a long gentle sigh. Really? What if I need a dozen lessons? I’m not good at anything computerised.

It’s just a matter of learning what to do, Michelle said. I’ve taught my own grandmother how to use this model. You couldn’t be worse to teach than she was. As she smiled, Ellen noticed she was wearing braces on her teeth.

It made her feel comfortable. Michelle wasn’t perfect either. But she’d taken this step to improve herself. Ellen could make an effort too.

Linda was quite put out when Ellen knocked on her front door later. Her greying blonde hair could do with a cut, Ellen noticed. And there were dark mushrooms under her eyes. If she didn’t worry so much, she might get a decent night’s sleep.

Then she felt immediately hypocritical. She hadn’t really taken good care of herself either, had she? They’d been acting like a pair of misery bags. That’s what Robert would’ve said.

Over a cup of tea, Linda poured cold water on Ellen’s plans. You should ask for your money back, she said.

Ellen shrugged. She hadn’t mentioned her dream, of course. It’ll be fun to sew again, she said. I popped in to see if you wanted to come to the sewing classes with me. Michelle said she didn’t mind.

A strange sound came from Linda. Ellen couldn’t tell if it was a snort or a grunt. She just wants my money too.

Ellen finished her tea and stood up. The classes are at ten o’clock every morning. Ring me if you want to come tomorrow.

As she walked down the street, she noticed Linda’s next-door neighbour. Henry was spraying his rose bushes. He looked up and waved to her. He seemed friendly. Why was Linda always complaining about him?

I’ll bet she didn’t ask you in for a cuppa, Ellen thought.

One of Robert’s sayings flashed through her mind. You can lead a horse to water…

Ellen felt a bit stronger. There was no need for her to take on her friend’s despondency.

I’m even starting to dream about her telling me problems, she realised.

To her surprise Linda decided to join her next morning – purely as a spectator, she insisted. By the end of the hour, Ellen was able to sew straight seams and to do buttonholes. The automatic needle-threader was proving difficult but as Michelle pointed out, she’d come a long way in a short time.

After the lesson she and Linda decided to look at dress patterns and fabrics.

Something mid-calf, I think, Ellen said, flicking the pattern book open at the tab Cocktail and evening dresses.

You won’t get much wear out of that, will you? Linda said. An everyday dress in a bright cotton would make more sense.

Ellen didn’t answer. This wasn’t about being sensible, was it? This was about finding herself. Wear your own colours, Robert had said. She remembered how handsome he’d looked in the dark suit. She wanted to look her best too. That’s what he wanted. She cast a careful eye over the styles. Nothing too short. Nothing too fussy.

And then she saw it. A gypsy style of dress, with a flowing mid-calf skirt, fitted bodice and waist, and matching jacket. She felt like hugging herself. She’d look pretty in this dress. It was both elegant and fun.

She bought the pattern.

It’s not my place to tell you how to spend your money. If Linda wasn’t sixty years old, Ellen would swear she sounded sulky.

This would look lovely in rich coloured silk, Michelle said next morning. You could look for cobalt or emerald, maybe shot with maroon.

You don’t think the style’s too young for me? A few doubts had crept into Ellen’s mind after Linda’s lukewarm comments. Mutton dressed as lamb?

Michelle shook her head. You’ve kept your figure. I think it’ll really suit you.

Ellen told her she was planning to go to a concert next month, on her birthday. She hadn’t mentioned this to Linda. Her friend had stopped going out at night since she lost her husband five years earlier and would no doubt pour cold water over that idea too.

Ellen was planning to bide her time and wait for the right moment to ask Linda to join her.

Michelle had an idea. Why don’t I help you find the right material? she said. It’s time for my morning break. And I’ll look for some for my gran at the same time.

In the third shop, Lady Luck smiled on them. There was a roll of exquisite shot silk for sale, heavily reduced. They both reached for it at the same time. Michelle held it up against Ellen and beamed. It’s perfect for both of you. You and my gran will look like twins. Would that matter? Michelle’s braces were dotted with lavender plastic, and her grin was contagious. Ellen felt years younger, beside such a light-hearted and generous creature. She’d be more than happy to look like Michelle’s gran.

It was only as she lay in bed that night that Ellen remembered Robert calling her his gypsy princess on their first date.

Where had these lovely memories been hiding? Why had she slipped inside this dark unhappy envelope of despair since his death?

If she wasn’t careful, she’d turn into someone like Linda.

She put a small swathe of the fabric under her pillow, hoping she might have another dream about Robert.

But dreams aren’t always made to order.

Besides, Robert would’ve said she was being fanciful, she thought, as she ground beans for her coffee the following morning.

Make yourself a dress in your own colours.

So much good advice was in those few words. Robert must’ve seen her despondency and decided to entice back her fun-loving nature. Take his gypsy girl out of her comfort zone. Open her eyes again to the good things in life. Had he somehow known she’d been dreading another birthday without him?

The day of the concert drew near. She’d bought tickets for a symphony orchestra performing Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.

The day before, she took her dress to show Michelle, and get her help with finishing touches.

Michelle was bursting with excitement. Her eyes shone as she carefully worked the delicate fastening on the back of the bodice. Then she noticed a slight shadow on Ellen’s happiness.

Is something the matter? she asked.

Linda’s changed her mind about coming with me, Ellen said. She doesn’t think it’s safe for two women our age to be out at night time.

Michelle shook her head. Why is she leaving you on your own, if she doesn’t think you’ll be safe?

I’m beginning to realise how negative she is, Ellen said. I’ll have a good time anyway. Maybe she’ll come with me next time, when she realises the bogey man didn’t get me.

That’s the spirit, Michelle said. You can lead a horse to water…

Robert’s words. And now Michelle’s. Surely not a coincidence? It was as though he’d brought this young girl into her life as a breath of fresh air.

Ellen would make sure she was one of the horses smart enough to drink.

The orchestra was everything she’d hoped. Closing her eyes, she felt transported to another realm. Lifted out of herself into a fantasy of sublime sound. Her heart soared with the music.

When she opened her eyes, during a lull in the piece, she had to blink. Surely she was mistaken? Someone had sat in the empty seat beside her. Someone in a dark evening suit. A handsome man in his forties, who turned to her with eyes radiating love and pride.

As the violins led her into another flight of passion, she thought she heard a soft voice beside her and the words my gypsy princess.

When the lights came on again at the end, the seat beside her was empty. But she thought she noticed a faint hint of the musky aftershave Robert had always worn.

She felt peaceful as she made her way to the foyer for refreshments.

Sipping a glass of chardonnay, she noticed a woman wearing a similar dress to her own. The woman waved brightly and walked up to her. She had her granddaughter’s lovely smile and sparkling eyes.

You must be Ellen, she said. Michelle’s told me all about you. I just know we’re going to be friends. She clinked her glass against Ellen’s. Here’s to happy days.

Ellen took another sip of the wine. To happy days, she said softly.

Shape up, Santa

Mrs Claus watched as Santa struggled with the buttons on his red jacket. If you don’t get into shape soon, I’ll put your name down for The Biggest Loser, she said. How do you think you’re going to get up and down chimneys?

It’s not my fault, he said. The material seems to have shrunk.

Don’t give me that excuse, she said. You’ve been sitting in front of the TV for weeks, munching on chocolate cookies.

Santa stretched the black leather belt and held his breath. But it was no good. The metal eye was just out of reach of the buckle.

Outside, icicles hung from the trees and the garden was waist deep in snow. A strong wind was blowing.

Mrs Claus poured tea and set it down on the table beside the rye wafers and lettuce salad.

Santa groaned. You can’t call this lunch, he said. Not in this weather.

You’ve only got yourself to blame, she said. Just be grateful I’m not having fish pie and baked potatoes. She nibbled half-heartedly at a rye wafer, regretting her decision to join him in this. But what else could she do? He was unfit and out of breath all the time. How could he manage the zillion things he needed to do on Christmas Eve unless he got himself into better shape? And she was too busy answering all the children’s letters and cards to sit at her sewing machine and make him a new outfit.

Santa sipped his tea and pulled a face. You forgot the sugar.

You’re the one who needs to forget sugar. She’d sugared her own tea and added cream when her husband wasn’t looking.

Santa started to protest. The effort caused one of the large red buttons to pop off his jacket and fly across the room.

He quietly helped himself to lettuce and watercress.

After lunch Mrs Claus played Bing Crosby’s White Christmas vinyl on the old record player, and got out the photo album.

Remember the good old days, she said.

Together they browsed through the photos. The earliest ones were in black and white, and rather eerie, showing a plump dark silhouette perched precariously on rooftops, and disappearing into chimneys.

Children were different then, he reminisced. He pointed