I’ve just had a memory of a conversation that I had with a friend’s Mum, back in the day as I was preparing to move from the small Devon village that I lived in to the big bright and shiny lights of good Old London Town.
I was moving to a nurses home just off Oxford Street in the West End – lots of stories there as I’m sure you can imagine! The year was 1978, I was aged 18, Saturday Night Fever had hit the cinemas and the clubs, Soho was still delightfully seedy and I was in terrifying heaven!
But back to Joyce, the friend’s Mum, then in her sixties and one of the most contented people that I have ever met. She also cooked the best fry up that I have ever eaten!
Now Joyce had been born in North Devon, met a young soldier who was stationed there, married him and then moved to his hometown in East Devon. And there she stayed. She had never stepped foot out of Devon and never would.
That made no sense to me at the time. I was desperate for new experiences and was stirred by a mixture of fear and excitement at the prospect of the move to London.
Joyce was not at all critical of my move to the wicked city, she actually loved to hear about my plans and descriptions of my new life. In fact the seedier my tales, the more delighted she became! She was so pleased for me, and seemed to have no fear for me, no judgment of me and an absolute certainty that I would be fine.
I remember asking her about her plans. Did she not want to visit new places, have new experiences? Might she come and visit me in London? I can picture her now, sitting in front of the coal fire, with her wraparound pinny on. She would have sat quietly for a while before answering, Joyce never rushed anything. She would then explain that ‘no thank you, I’m fine where I am maid, I don’t mind going to Exeter with the boys for a bit of Christmas shopping but there’s nowhere else I need to go.
As Joyce gave her answer I remember feeling a mixture of frustration and confusion. My 18 year old self could not imagine ever being content to stay in one place!
Any yet, even then, I could sort of see the sense in her way of life, even if only fleetingly. Joyce lived in one the most beautiful seaside towns in the UK, maybe in the world! She cycled to her cleaning job and to the shops, she kept her small terraced house clean and homely (only using the front room on Christmas Day and Easter Sunday) and she cooked lunch every day for her three grown up sons who all lived and worked in the town.
She watched TV in the evenings and went to Bingo once a week with her cousin, both cycling the five miles there and back. Oh, and she knitted. Any babies born in the streets nearby would be gifted one of her beautiful outfits.
I saw Joyce a couple of times after I had moved to London and then we lost touch. I’ve no idea why she came to mind today, except that I’ve enjoyed remembering her and suspect that there’s something about me that would like to be more like Joyce.
I get a peaceful, easy feeling just thinking about Joyce, I wonder if you have had a Joyce in your life, I’d love to hear about it if you did. Let’s celebrate the Joyces of the world.
Let’s be more like Joyce.
