of berta and bluebell and rain

I was wondering when the rain would start. Yesterday, as I went back to Hampstead Heath, a place that every Londoner holds in reverential wonderment, the clouds that have hung like udders, full and bursting, began to spill over, and then last night - it rained. Rained so that I could hear it. The Heath was beautiful of course and blooming with memory. Of every companion that has walked by my side in silence, of every argument breaking apart a tender moment, of eruptions of exuberant revelation, of love declared, of fearful recognition of the end of something, of birthdays celebrated, of being late for a date at the Women's Pond, of dogs careening through the long grasses, of chasing balls and kites flying, and the clatter of china at the Tea Rooms, of music from the band stand swooning over the rise and fall of the hills, and the silence of the little meandering trails, and the swans and moorhens on the little bodies of water and the feathery grass and the skyline of the city in the distance, of lovers making out under the oaks, of jealousies and trepidations among the browning bodies of the women lying on the meadow between swims at the pond, and hours upon hours of walking with all of the friends and lovers discussing politics and art, and families, and life and death and success and failures, and sex and who did whom and when and where and would I like to go home with you. Or you with me.

Berta and I walked these hills and skies many times. I don't remember many gaps in the conversations. We shared much about being half Jewish, being artists struggling with a dominant culture which didn't want the art we produced, with certain feminist ideologies that berated us for our individual search for that bridge across the divide between our sense of marginalisation and the wider world out there. We both wrote plays which garnered critical praise and community condemnation, she wrote poetry and fiction as avidly as I photographed every moment. We argued and laughed uproariously, I was an outsider in her women's community in west London, there were those near her who were as vitriolic about me as was humanly possible, and Berta stood true to her friendship with me while finding communality with them. We were lovers briefly, probably because at that time, we were all lovers with many. Our 'non monogamous period' Berta's best friend Eve described it the other day. But it made sense. Berta had sparkling flirtatious eyes, a raucous sense of humour, a neat compact little body and a sensuous mouth that begged to be kissed. And I did. And she was as smart and edgy as they came. I'm sure the breaking up wasn't as simple as I remember it. But we survived it. I remember giving her one of my framed graffiti photos and her sheer joy in receiving it. I saw that print again the other day, hanging above the stairs in her house, among many other works she obviously loved. I felt extremely honoured.

I worry about her cat Bluebell, a gorgeous large grey and white guy with a slow lumbering pace and a little caution when he sees the camera. Berta absolutely adored her cats and did not like to be without one. She wrote a painful poem about having to euthanise one, and the memory of it has stayed with me. Bernadette told me that while she was in the hospital recently, she cried about Bluebell, about his aloneness without her. His future now without Berta is a little uncertain. Her sweet home, where every surface exuded a memory of Berta and her collection of things, will be sold, the little lush garden only a memory for those of us who sat there. Bluebell will have to be re-homed and my own terror of this issue is spilling out in worry and anxiety.

Berta died during the night on Saturday. Before I left at 8pm I held her hand, though it was no longer really attached to her heart, and by this time the life was literally ebbing from her body. So different from Thursday when she had giggled and grinned at the playful way in which Bern and I and she were re-living past events. During the day on Saturday when people came and went, I wandered through her sweet little house and sat at her writing desk, in her chair covered in Bluebells' little white hairs, and wondered what she had last written. Papers and mementos cover every inch of space, books climb to the ceiling, file cabinets overflow with ideas, documents, bills long paid. There are photographs, inherited and given paintings, drawings, chotchkes, letters from publishers, from enthusiastic students, awards, playbills - everywhere. Boxes sitting for years, as yet unpacked, from her mothers home. Clothing, unused bedding, glass ornament hanging twinkling in the sunlight streaming through the windows, art of cats, photos of cats, friends peering out from behind glass, photos of Berta with that infectious grin and her gray hair cut neatly in a bob, with her arms around lovers and friends and children, though she never had children of her own. And was an only child.

I had begun this blog finally sobbing. I had wondered when I would. But now, I'm dry again. And now there is even blue sky over central London.

Comments

[susie]

jill,
i don't like saying these sorts of things publicly. but what the hell. jill, you somehow create a safe world with your words that explain what is important in life. and that especially was so very hard to leave eight years ago.
can you bring bluebell home with you?

susie

[Deb in Minnesota]

Jill, I've been away but I'm home now. And thinking of you, your friend and Bluebell.