My lovely big doll, Janice lives in the attic. Propped up
between an old filing cabinet and boxes of Christmas stuff, she manages to stay
upright and fix her blue-eyed gaze through the Velux to the tops of the houses
opposite, or the night sky. She is nearly sixty years old, in reasonably good
shape and dressed smartly in a pale blue summer dress that used to be my
daughter’s. Janice’s original dress of shiny white and royal blue has not
survived the test of time.
She was given to me on my fifth birthday and we’ve always
been together except for the time a few years ago when I lent her out to take
part in a themed window display somewhere in Knott End.
We almost had a tragedy on Sunday. I carefully brought her
down to the landing for a photo-shoot during which, our eldest grandson, being
inquisitive, came looking for me. Of course, I had to introduce them to each
other, grandson not quite sure if Janice, nearly the same height, was real or
not, kept a safe distance. Seconds later, we took her downstairs to meet the others.
I kept hold of her while our granddaughter and younger grandson looked at her.
A few remarks from the so called adults of the family, like,
‘Oh that creepy doll, what’s she doing down here?’ As if she’d
escaped the attic on her own.
‘That Janice, she’s
so bleeping scary!’ There’s absolutely nothing scary about my Janice.
‘You always kept her at the end of my bed. She gave me bleeping
nightmares.’ Huh? My daughter didn’t complain at the time and I’d say she comes
across as a well-adjusted young mother.
I was trying not to laugh too much as I defended my
beautiful doll. I explained that the poor thing has to live right upstairs in
the attic room because someone who shall remain anonymous is easily spooked by
her. Everyone knows who it is, so there’s much family laughter and witty banter
going on when suddenly, as I altered the way I was holding Janice, both her
arms dropped off and fell to the floor. What was happy laughter became an
uproar, squeals, tears, aching sides and literally rolling on the floor. It was
the funniest thing ever, just hilarious. The stuff that linked the arms
together looked like perished rubber and it probably was. Luckily, she was soon
mended with some elastic from my sewing cupboard and the expertise from ‘he who
will not be spooked by a doll while he’s mending it’ who did a first class job and I am very grateful.
If our new neighbours think they’ve moved next door to a
madhouse, I hope they know it’s a happy one and they are welcome to join in. Janice
is back in the attic, until next time.
I found this poem by William Butler Yeats
The Dolls
A doll in the doll-maker's house
Looks at the cradle and bawls:
'That is an insult to us.’
But the oldest of all the dolls,
Who had seen, being kept for show,
Generations of his sort,
Out-screams the whole shelf: 'Although
There's not a man can report
Evil of this place,
The man and the woman bring
Hither, to our disgrace,
A noisy and filthy thing.’
Hearing him groan and stretch
The doll-maker's wife is aware
Her husband has heard the wretch,
And crouched by the arm of his chair,
She murmurs into his ear,
Head upon shoulder leant:
'My dear, my dear, O dear,
It was an accident.
W.B.Yeats 1865 - 1939 Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
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