“We’re all stories in the end, just make it a good one, eh?” said Dr Who during his David Tennant incarnation. Though the stories of my own life have failed to have neat beginnings, middles and ends I’ve come to rely on the emotional and fantastical realities of those who travel through Time and Relative Dimensions in Space (i.e The Tardis) to give me some to escape into. I’m not a Dr Who geek – but I was once moved to write “Bad Wolf” in the sand on Tynemouth beach to mark the end of one particular story arc and replayed the scene where Billie Piper and David Tennant said goodbye forever about twelve times in lieu of being able to cry over a real life doomed relationship. I’m not so much a fanboy as a tissuegirl.
During the first series in the eighties, Dr Who episodes were just more stories like Little Red Riding Hood or the Magic Faraway Tree that I read under the sheets after lights out. In 1981, while Tom Baker was morphing into Peter Davison and Margaret Thatcher was visiting Belfast factories, it was my adoptive father’s family in California who represented escape. His tanned, slow-voweled nieces and nephews, who introduced us to McDonalds and M and Ms before they first came to England, said we were “the perfect family”, not knowing about the all night arguments, slammed doors and the raised fists. America seemed to want it’s story to be read by it’s citizens and visitors. Even a six year old from Bradford picked up key elements from adult conversations and T.V- the Founding Fathers, babyboomers, the space race, the American dream.
Back home, the parts of grey concreted Britain’s story on show to someone only just born into it seemed to consist of two things. The wars followed by Margaret Thatcher. The rest were silences when you walked into a room and history books as mysteriously blank as the father’s space on my birth certificate. Margaret Thatcher was like the Mum of the nation and she was also like my Mum who ran a business and had a boy and a girl twin like me and my brother and dressed smartly and told us what to do. She was admired by my adoptive Dad who believed in business and the survival of the fittest and in going into battle with anyone who disagreed with him. So “Mrs Thatcher” (the idea) got mixed up with the story of my family and I felt guilty when I came home from sleeping at Nan’s with her words about our PrimeMinister ringing in my ears; “Under that woman, the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer” and believed them until being relieved when Mum or Dad mentioned “Bloody Arthur Scargill” or “Loony lefty councils” or “Your teachers going on strike yet abloodygain”. It turned out there were other ways of telling even that story, ones I wasn’t supposed to hear.
Into one of the gaps where there could have been a story about my country, Dr Who travelled through space and drew a timeline from 1989 when he was axed, to 2005 when he returned. I hadn’t seen my family for sixteen years, after everything exploded, but the series reminded me of what had endured about Englishness from my childhood to my thirties. Vague, eccentric geniuses and jelly babies, bow ties and wobbly sets, fighting for the underdog and ramshackle invention. In 2005, the Doctor even had a Northern accent like the one I was now conscious of having. An accent which isn’t heard telling public stories as often as others. By then I’d learned something about what it is to know you’re in a margin not a centre. He battles baddies and the loneliness of being the last time lord. He can never die, just regenerates more times than a Northern city’s Quayside.
I grew up to have a job writing and reading news stories in a region where Thatcher wasn’t just someone who had woven in and out of the backdrop of people’s personal stories the way most governments do most of the time, the way she had in mine. She’d had a direct impact on people’s lives- taking away livelihoods, jobs and communities. Her battle against them, a battle that often felt so personal, saw some become bent down with a defeat and anger that weighs them down even now. Ever since I moved to the North East I’ve been hearing about Thatcher’s future death. The glee of stamping the dirt down, spitting on the grave, pissing on it. Many a flat gig in a pub room would get an instant shot of energy if Maggie’s future death was anticipated. A burst of joy, as if it would bring the story that had been so painfully true to an end at last.
My adoptive father had had two heart attacks when I still lived at home. After I left and he made it clear to my Mother and siblings that anyone with me must be against him, I waited for him to die so I could get my family back. I knew I would need to be patient. It was 1991. It might take twenty years I thought. I knew there would never be apologies from him, or forgiveness of me – so death was the only end to the story I could possibly imagine. He died a month ago and it soon became clear that this would not after all lead to the spell being lifted and the wasteland growing again. My twin brother is too damaged by the intervening years and my Mother is too used to doing everything on her own. My leaving home to get away from it all when I was sixteen has damaged the fragile ties of trust that exist in a family where member is pitted against member. My sister and I though, have cried and laughed together on the phone since he went and she sent me the first childhood pictures I’ve seen since I left home. Backdrops of palm trees and Christmas trees. A long forgotten nativity angel’s dress, a Rubicks Cube and mine and my brother’s matching pump bags.
So this Saturday’s Dr Who already felt resonant.The Doctor and new companion Clara had to defeat a badly CGI’d orange planetary being who had been parasitically feeding on the hopes and dreams of inhabitants nearby for years. They placated it with songs and the sacrifice of some of their young people. Then the Doctor tries to overwhelm the being with his hundreds of years of memories. But it’s Clara who defeats it by simply presenting it with a pressed leaf she’s kept (bear with me), the leaf which had caused her dead parents to meet. She says; “It’s full of stories, full of history. Full of a future that never got lived, days that should have been but never were. This leaf isn’t just the past, it’s a whole future that never happened. There are millions and millions of unlived days but every day we live an infinity. All the days that never came”.
My adoptive father didn’t want a funeral that not enough people would come to, though bizarrely, his ashes will be buried with their dog when it dies. I wrote to him when he was dying and he wrote back, almost apologising for the way he had tried to destroy the sixteen year old me because I threatened the life he had managed to claw out of his chaos. He said he wanted to come and see me, though there would be no need to talk about the past and “bring all that up again”. I said no. He died in a French hospital on a snowy day a month ago. I didn’t like him, I won’t miss him and I hadn’t seen him for twenty years- but I’ve been feeling a dragging in the chest and an edginess to my emotions since that feels suspiciously like grief.
For many, Thatcher was someone who caused real destruction they still suffer every day. Her death might feel like an end, but it brings a renewed mourning for the infinity of days that were lost- the lives that could have been. This divided country is now living out several stories at once in the absence of a strong narrative we could all buy into (like the one we glimpsed during the Olympics opening ceremony). A cacophony of other voices are also telling their versions of Thatcher and our history. Those (like me) who were unaware children when she led, those who benefitted from and reveled in the culture of greed she encouraged, those who have a vested interest in perpetuating her brand of conservatism. For some Thatcher was a good story, for some she was a horror story. But until those who suffered the real damage of her rule get to speak without being shouted down or pilloried, then the damage is just being reinforced. Saying that there’s no need to “bring all that up again” is like saying that it didn’t matter in the first place.
Not that they would ever have been able to hear it-the ones who couldn’t bear disagreement- and they certainly never will now they’re dead. But someone has to be willing to listen, to witness what happened, for there to be the healing that might lead to a new beginning. It’s more urgent than social proprieties about not speaking ill of the dead or respect for mourning- it’s the thing that allows real mourning for what’s been lost to happen, for the energy tied up in regret and anger to be released and for a better future to be imagined and built.
We’re all stories in the end, let’s just make them good ones, eh?