Monday 22 July 2013

On July 4th my aunt Bernardine Chambers died after a very long illness. Writing as Bernardine Bishop, she was on the brink of a newly revived career as a novelist. (She started out as a writer in the '60s, publishing two early novels, then worked as an English teacher and a psychotherapist.) Her first mature novel, Unexpected Lessons in Love came out from John Murray this January, and two more novels, even better, are ready for publication. She writes with rare economy, wit and compassion. This is a very humble tribute, based on some conversations we had and a video interview made by the family. But those three mature novels are her real monument. 



Last Bloom
The heat pulls on growth from our Easter-chilled land
Old roses, chrysanths (once a gift from a man)
And our fruit softly ripens, summer’s treat newly made.
Here’s a thin long stem in the midst of the garden
(Little ones round about, drawn to care’s gentle shade.)
There three flowers bloomed in storial tiers –
The recounting, the teaching, the hard work in pairs.
Now shrivelled, near-gone, save fresh memory’s ear.
But a fourth, like the first, catches sunshine’s strong gleaming
And there’s beauty and hope, keen detail, firm limning.

There was ease for your pain, when the dream people came
To page-anchored life, in a window mount frame.
Those dreams poured so strong, God faded life’s squalor
For those long solo mornings as you sat whilst you could
And you knew that that glory of people and places
Was not just from world’s life, nor yet memory’s store.
It was prayer on the page, it was Grace in the telling.
The powers you gained came from more than just you.

Yet your pain marched its road, till you lost earthly grip.
Left here in the garden, the last bloom scattered tips
As its heart gently withered, and three petals fell.
And we stand here around, where your stem strongly grew,
Let’s cherish the three as your words linger with us
Be thankful for that, when church prayers will not do.

Time for that grace midst the pain of the parting
(Relief to your body, yet a gulf’s interposed)
And though faith’s slog seems weary, and our road dark and dreary
There’s a glint in the dark, faint hint of your smile.
As you told us a story for camera and sound –
Sheltering inside on a frost-ridden night
Your hospital spurned, yet fear gone for a while.
That night your glimpse was the love ‘cross the gulf
And an old fond promise seemed maybe half kept.
A sign’s seldom granted, else we’d not call it faith
But mother’s help in your darkness – there’s support in that percept.

So there’s a light to hold on to, your books fix love’s gift

Inspiring our march till our heart’s last lone lift.