This piece came from the word association spider diagram exercise.
Madrigal.
Irene was born to sing. She’d sing anything, even Country & Western, but she loved the classical choral works best – Faure’s Requiem, Brahms’ German Requiem, Carmina Burana – and, alas, the nearest proper choir was too far away. A church choir would’ve done – she liked the Christmas carols and there were some splendid hymns – but the choir at her local church consisted of men and boys only. She was pretty sure that wasn’t allowed anymore, but the vicar was a bit of, well a lot of, a misogynistic arse-hole, and he always had some ridiculous reason for turning down any woman who applied. Irene was tired of fighting wars that she had no chance of winning.
And so she’d joined the madrigal group. She enjoyed the harmonies and the challenge of singing unaccompanied. They sang well together. She’d always thought that madrigals were quintessentially English, but, to her surprise, they originated in 16th century Italy. Or 12th century Italy, depending on what you read. The internet was a wonderful thing, apart from the glaring inaccuracies and the rampant misogyny.
Madrigals reminded her of long summer days, grassy meadows full of butterflies and wild flowers, warm sunshine and gently flowing rivers, The Hissing of Summer Lawns by Joni Mitchell, and Henry VIII, because allegedly he wrote Greensleeves. And her thoughts were full of death and divorce, suppurating leg ulcers and syphilis, and yet more misogyny. What a pretty word syphilis was for something so ugly. Irene imagined a lost Shakespearean comedy about twins named Syphilis and Chlamydia, a boy and a girl separated at birth, who were forced by a plot depending entirely on coincidence to dress as each other: The Two Social Diseases of Verona or A Condom of Errors.
Memories of Italy swam to the surface of her mind. Thirty years ago she had visited Florence. The Ponte Vecchio and the Uffizi Gallery were still fresh in her memory, so many beautiful paintings and buildings to admire. If only she’d been able to stay there longer or time-travel back to the Renaissance and meet those wonderful artists. Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael and Donatello gambolled through her thoughts. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Her mind was off again, changing direction without so much by your leave. It had no consideration.
‘And they’re green,’ she sang, looking round quickly so see if anyone had heard. ‘I could murder a pizza.’
‘What’s that, Mum?’ Anna said.
‘Nothing, dear.’
Anna, her daughter, home from San Francisco where she worked for one of those dot.com whatevers that sprang up out of nowhere and made obscene amounts of money out of thin air. Irene had wanted to sing professionally. That would have been making a living out of thin air. And she’d’ve been happy and maybe Anna wouldn’t have left her and gone across the sea.
Irene loved swimming, the feeling of freedom, being weightless, held up by the water, but not in the sea. The salt water made her throat sore. Swimming pools were better, but sometimes the chlorine was too strong and her eyes watered and the taste lingered in her mouth.
She should’ve visited Anna while she had the chance, but she hated flying. All those people crammed together in such a small space, breathing each other’s air. Anna sent e-mails full of pictures; easier than writing, wasn’t it? The Golden Gate Bridge, the old wooden houses, the steep streets, the trams. What else was San Francisco famous for? Hippies and gays. Had Anna sent photos of people too? Or was it her Facebook page where Anna had posted pictures of friends and colleagues, and her lovers, for all that Irene knew.
Irene remembered taking Anna to the ballet, Coppelia was her favourite, and afterwards she’d demanded ballet lessons, but dancing hadn’t held her interest. Neither had singing. A shame, considering she’d named her daughter after Anna in The King and I. Had she ever told Anna that? Or was it Anna of the Five Towns, Irene’s A-level English set book? By Alan Bennett, no, it was by Arnold Bennett. Did it really matter?
The words of the German Requiem scrolled across her brain. ‘Behold, all flesh is as the grass and all the glories of man are as the flowers of the field.’
‘Anna,’ she said.
‘I’m here, Mum.’
‘The grass is withered.’ And so am I, Irene thought.
Madrigal.
Irene was born to sing. She’d sing anything, even Country & Western, but she loved the classical choral works best – Faure’s Requiem, Brahms’ German Requiem, Carmina Burana – and, alas, the nearest proper choir was too far away. A church choir would’ve done – she liked the Christmas carols and there were some splendid hymns – but the choir at her local church consisted of men and boys only. She was pretty sure that wasn’t allowed anymore, but the vicar was a bit of, well a lot of, a misogynistic arse-hole, and he always had some ridiculous reason for turning down any woman who applied. Irene was tired of fighting wars that she had no chance of winning.
And so she’d joined the madrigal group. She enjoyed the harmonies and the challenge of singing unaccompanied. They sang well together. She’d always thought that madrigals were quintessentially English, but, to her surprise, they originated in 16th century Italy. Or 12th century Italy, depending on what you read. The internet was a wonderful thing, apart from the glaring inaccuracies and the rampant misogyny.
Madrigals reminded her of long summer days, grassy meadows full of butterflies and wild flowers, warm sunshine and gently flowing rivers, The Hissing of Summer Lawns by Joni Mitchell, and Henry VIII, because allegedly he wrote Greensleeves. And her thoughts were full of death and divorce, suppurating leg ulcers and syphilis, and yet more misogyny. What a pretty word syphilis was for something so ugly. Irene imagined a lost Shakespearean comedy about twins named Syphilis and Chlamydia, a boy and a girl separated at birth, who were forced by a plot depending entirely on coincidence to dress as each other: The Two Social Diseases of Verona or A Condom of Errors.
Memories of Italy swam to the surface of her mind. Thirty years ago she had visited Florence. The Ponte Vecchio and the Uffizi Gallery were still fresh in her memory, so many beautiful paintings and buildings to admire. If only she’d been able to stay there longer or time-travel back to the Renaissance and meet those wonderful artists. Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael and Donatello gambolled through her thoughts. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Her mind was off again, changing direction without so much by your leave. It had no consideration.
‘And they’re green,’ she sang, looking round quickly so see if anyone had heard. ‘I could murder a pizza.’
‘What’s that, Mum?’ Anna said.
‘Nothing, dear.’
Anna, her daughter, home from San Francisco where she worked for one of those dot.com whatevers that sprang up out of nowhere and made obscene amounts of money out of thin air. Irene had wanted to sing professionally. That would have been making a living out of thin air. And she’d’ve been happy and maybe Anna wouldn’t have left her and gone across the sea.
Irene loved swimming, the feeling of freedom, being weightless, held up by the water, but not in the sea. The salt water made her throat sore. Swimming pools were better, but sometimes the chlorine was too strong and her eyes watered and the taste lingered in her mouth.
She should’ve visited Anna while she had the chance, but she hated flying. All those people crammed together in such a small space, breathing each other’s air. Anna sent e-mails full of pictures; easier than writing, wasn’t it? The Golden Gate Bridge, the old wooden houses, the steep streets, the trams. What else was San Francisco famous for? Hippies and gays. Had Anna sent photos of people too? Or was it her Facebook page where Anna had posted pictures of friends and colleagues, and her lovers, for all that Irene knew.
Irene remembered taking Anna to the ballet, Coppelia was her favourite, and afterwards she’d demanded ballet lessons, but dancing hadn’t held her interest. Neither had singing. A shame, considering she’d named her daughter after Anna in The King and I. Had she ever told Anna that? Or was it Anna of the Five Towns, Irene’s A-level English set book? By Alan Bennett, no, it was by Arnold Bennett. Did it really matter?
The words of the German Requiem scrolled across her brain. ‘Behold, all flesh is as the grass and all the glories of man are as the flowers of the field.’
‘Anna,’ she said.
‘I’m here, Mum.’
‘The grass is withered.’ And so am I, Irene thought.