Snapshot: Watching the sea on the ferry to Denmark

The little girl in the photograph is me. The curtains and my hair “style” give away the fact that it was taken in the 1970s. It’s perhaps not instantly apparent that it’s on board a ship. It was taken by my mother in the spring of 1970 from inside the cabin of the DFDS Seaways ferry that used to sail from Harwich to Esbjerg in Denmark. To me, it encapsulates the sheer excitement of going to see my grandparents.

On the back of the photograph, my mother’s handwriting is recognisably Scandinavian. Destined for a family album, the Danish words meaning “little girl looking out at the big ocean” capture the fact that even though she had lived in England for many years, she would use her native language to record memories.

My grandparents on my mother’s side were Danish and lived in Fredericia in Jutland. We would visit them every year. My father couldn’t join us, but although I missed him, it made it a special adventure for the two of us; a voyage to my Danish half. My grandmother spoke no English and though my grandfather did, I remember him as wonderfully familiar but “other” to my childhood mind.

Our journey had its ritual. We’d set off in one of those old Rovers that had the look of an overly inflated toy. From the outskirts of east London, my anticipation stretched all the way to the first sighting of the ship’s red chimney at Harwich. It was the beginning. We played I spy knowing there was only one thing to spy.

In the picture, in my pyjamas and full of up-beyond-bedtime seriousness, I am at my lookout post. My mother was behind me in the narrow cabin bed. I was awaiting one of the rituals of the sea. At midnight, the ship on the return from Denmark would sound its horn when it passed the one leaving England. I was awash with excitement.

Beside me is a troll toy in a bobble hat and appropriately seadog attire. I was never a fan of dolls, but I was inordinately fond of this one.

My grandparents are no longer alive and the Harwich to Esbjerg route ceased in 2014, after 140 years of service.

The photograph is somehow a tribute to all of them.
Keren Levy

Playlist: In the winter of 1963, my small world froze

Life in a Northern Town by the Dream Academy

“He said, ‘In winter 1963 / It felt like the world would freeze / With John F Kennedy / And the Beatles.’”

The winter of 1962-63 was the coldest for 200 years in Britain. Freezing weather began before Christmas and lasted until early March with the snow lying on the ground for weeks, and rivers and lakes were frozen solid.

I was 10 at the time and living with my five siblings in a council house on a sprawling estate. My father had died from pneumonia in October 1962 and by January the following year, my mother, worn out with grief, worry and the numbing cold, succumbed to flu and a chest infection.

She lay for many days under a pile of old coats on the settee, close to the coal fire, the only source of warmth we had in the house. To make matters worse, our water pipes froze solid, so we had no running water. Our neighbour supplied us with a bucket of water each day which had to do for everything.

My older siblings went off to school on the bus each morning and two younger brothers attended their infant classes. I was still at the junior school, which was next door to our house so I could sneak home each lunchtime to make up the fire, boil water for tea and make a sandwich or heat soup for my mum.

After a few days of this routine, I was spotted leaving the school and reported to the teacher. Not knowing the circumstances or reason behind my truancy, she ticked me off very sternly and when she finished I burst into tears. In between sobs, I managed to say:

“Please, Miss, my mum is really poorly and we haven’t got any water. I just went to help her, Miss.”

“Good gracious me, child, why ever didn’t you say something before? Now you are to go home for as long as your mum needs you.”

Turning to the rest of the class, she asked for two strong, sensible boys and told them that before and after school they were to fetch water each day for us from the school.

Thinking about it now, I wonder why I didn’t confide in my teacher before; she was strict but kind-hearted. I think, like many families, we preferred to deal with problems ourselves as much as possible.

To our relief and joy, Mum got better and in early March, temperatures began to rise, the snow and ice rapidly thawed and water flowed out of our taps again.
Felicity Middleton

We love to eat: My nonna’s homemade gnocchi

Ingredients

1kg potatoes
300g flour
1 egg

Boil the potatoes, drain and mash. Add the egg and flour and bring together to make a firm dough. Knead gently until smooth and roll out to about 1cm thick. Cut into strips 1.5cm wide. Cut each strip into pieces of approximately 2.5cm and roll with the tips of your finger. Boil until they float and serve with homemade pasta sauce.

Coming from an Italian family, eating gnocchi was a regular part of my childhood. My sister and I would often help my nonna make them. Even though they were irregular shapes, she’d let them pass quality control. Eating gnocchi reminds me of Saturday lunchtimes with my family – parents, siblings, grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins – squished around the dining table enjoying great food and animated conversations.

I remember the first time I took my boyfriend (now husband) to meet my nonna. She was an independent lady in her 90s, who insisted on cooking us lunch – homemade gnocchi. Little dumplings of fluffy pasta coated in homemade sauce, infused with basil and with loads of stringy mozzarella, which is an undetectable quality until you try to separate one of the gnocchi pieces.

He had never had gnocchi before, but obviously liked them as he finished off not one, but two platefuls – much to Nonna’s delight. It felt like somehow I was sharing my childhood memories with him. He looked absolutely stuffed. I didn’t know how to tell him that the gnocchi was just the first course! The shocked look on his face was priceless as two more courses came and went. He proudly passed the “man v food” Italian-style initiation … but spent the afternoon on the sofa in a gnocchi-induced stupor. I knew then that he was the man I would marry.
Tina Jeskins

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