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What will the neighbours say?

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FROM an extremely young age, I firmly resolved to remain unaffected by what the neighbours say. To this day, it astonishes me how people are inhibited, restricted and virtually paralysed in their natural inclinations by the over-riding fear of what others might say about them.

Retrospectively viewing myself as a child, I picture myself constantly listening and absorbing like a sponge the discussions of all the adults around. As the youngest of eight, everybody in my home seemed fully grown because there are five years between my sister and me and my brother was five years older than she.
I remember my mother describing how her grandmother rose at dawn to light the fire. Then, secure in the knowledge that the smoke would signal to the neighbours that she was up and bustling around – presumably baking, washing and ironing – she’d snuggle back into bed.
When my mother’s older sisters emigrated to America, they sent parcels home frequently. Included were beautifully embroidered bed linen and towels. Deemed much too elegant for everyday use, these delicate homewares were stored away for guests. Once a week, they were displayed out on the clothesline for the neighbours’ benefit, before being replaced in the chest of drawers. There was only one house nearby and my mother’s family went to all that trouble to impress them. To be fair, though, I do recall that those particular neighbours considered themselves to be a cut above everyone else, so perhaps they deserved an eyeful.
It wasn’t just my family, who cared about what the neighbours said. As a little girl, I recall that every Friday night, my next-door small friend asked me to go for “the message” with her. Note, ‘the message’ was not any old message. Small as I was, I recognised the distinction and sensed that not only was the message of mighty importance but that I should not enquire as to exactly what it was. I vividly remember accompanying her to a decrepit old hall in the neighbourhood. She would hand in a book, they’d write something in it and return it to her. Years later, I discovered the ‘shameful’ secret. The message was (whisper it) the credit union. Isn’t that impossible to credit? The mortification of it if that family were unmasked. And nowadays, our local credit unions are state-of-the-art buildings and can hold their heads high, whilst our erstwhile proud banks are reduced to hanging theirs in disgrace.
I’ve always regarded my mother as the epitome of style. I admired her taste greatly but drew the line at her refusal ever to wear slippers or a dressing gown. My sisters followed her example but rebellious me? No. I wear a dressing gown if I like and if someone calls to the house, so what? What does that say about me? Does it show disrespect for others? I hope not. I would prefer to think that it merely denotes a confidence, a sense of self, an attitude that my self-esteem is not dependent on others’ opinion of me.
That attitude extends to my choice in clothes, albeit latterly. Some years ago, I worked for a couple of years in the local charity shop with another woman. As employees, we had the option of buying for ourselves anything that was for sale at half the price charged to customers – next to nothing, almost. My colleague was about 15 years younger than I but was much more street-wise and, well, reluctant as I am to admit it, more mature. One day, she pronounced that I was ‘pudeur’ in my choice of clothes. This French word was new to me. She vaguely explained it away as restrained. Curious, I researched the word further and discovered it meant reserved, modest, discreet – even ashamed of one’s body. I am loath to add “especially in sexual matters”. What? Moi?
Anyway, I instantly saw why she deduced I was ‘pudeur’. You see, any clothes I chose in the shop were black, beige or a mixture of both. And so I embarked upon my peacock phase in life – eye-popping colours, stripes, lower necklines and general bling. And I didn’t care a whit what anybody thought.
That particular colourful mid-life crisis was triggered by the knowledge that I became ‘pudeur’ because I obeyed the dictum “blue and green should never be seen” and “flowers they are red and trees they are green” all my life, compounded by the oft-repeated question of “what will the neighbours say?”
Thankfully, having proven I was capable of breaking the mould, I quit wearing red and purple together.
Enough has been written condemning the horrors of Magdalene Laundries. But barely a word was uttered about the parents who banished their beautiful daughters forever because “what will the neighbours say?”

 

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