30 December 1942 – 14 December 2021
Service
Watch the service here.Eulogy
Chris
Our mother was born at the end of 1942 in Cape Town, halfway round the world at the southern tip of Africa. Both of her parents were artists who’d been living in France before having to flee the advancing Nazis. South Africa was far enough away to feel safe.
Her parents divorced when she was two. Her father was given sole custody – likely because her mother’s new husband was black. Two years later when Anna was only four her father took her to Sussex in the UK where he left her in the care of the nuns at what was described as a convent boarding school but was in fact an orphanage. She would see her father and distant relatives at Christmas, Easter and in the summer. On one occasion she was introduced to her older brother Stephen for the first time.
At the age of seven, Anna and Stephen arrived at Paddington Station to wait for their father to collect them. He never appeared and nobody could locate him so they were taken to a police station. They did not see their father again for over 30 years.
Anna’s next two years were divided between the convent and relatives in Sussex until she moved, aged nine, to Cheltenham to meet her mother, step-father and two younger brothers, Bokkie and Jelly. Anna never told us what went through her mind at that meeting nor whether she remembered her mother from before. It was not a fairy tale ending – as an adolescent she found adjusting to life with a new family difficult to say the least, but one good thing about being in Cheltenham was that at her new school she met and became best friends with Sue Limb and through Sue met Roger, Sue’s brother. Eventually Anna fell in love, married Roger, and their marriage lasted 25 years.
These early experiences informed her whole outlook on life – she was firmly against bigotry or hypocrisy in any form and had no time for organised religion. The early instability and insecurity made her shy in social situations, and it took time for her to get close to people and trust them.
Growing up in the England of the 1950s exposed her to old fashioned notions such as the stiff upper lip and maintaining the status quo, all of which she wholeheartedly rejected. Instead Anna embraced the unconventional and championed the underdog wherever she went.
I think these are invaluable qualities all of which she passed on to us. Her stories of childhood in South Africa and The Convent took on an almost mythical quality in our heads – tales of how, worried about not having anything to say during confession, she made up the sin of stealing her brother’s Brylcreem or how once she and a friend attempted to escape the convent but were spotted by the nuns from their revolving restaurant (a detail which now seems odd but as children we took it as gospel). There were also tales of the nineteen fifties racism her mixed race family experienced which instilled a sense of what was genuinely right and wrong in us all.
This unconventional outlook meant she was always open to new ideas from the unorthodox sides of human experience and would never judge the unexpected on appearance alone. For example, unlike many parents of the time she encouraged and appreciated my decisions to dress a little differently, dyeing my hair and so on. She’d always get a twinkle in her eye when involved with something nonconformist, wordlessly challenging those obviously shocked by it to say something…
Even towards the end of her life, a carer at Seaway Nursing home told us that our mum made fun of a social worker’s seemingly inane questions by imitating their condescending tone. This showed us that her feisty spirit was present to the end.
Samantha
Our mum was passionate about art her whole life. A couple of years ago, after we sold Logie Bank and started the long task of packing her things, we marveled at the hundreds of sketch books containing 1000s of drawings that were in her studio. Starting from the 1960s there were pictures of her newborn son, a local black tomcat, the garden view from a Finsbury Park basement flat, a pastel Petruchka puppet. The later sketch books from the 1970s right up to a couple of years ago included abstract sculpture studies, red highland cows, gnarled pomegranates, burnt orange capsicums, nude figures in motion, holidaymakers lounging on a beach in Greece, and of course many many Staffordshire Bull terriers.
Although Anna didn’t study art at grammar school, she did O and A level art while the three of us were at school. And later, she completed a Foundation course at Sir John Cass School of Art. Then continued learning bronze casting, stone carving, lithographics, printing, and life drawing with some of the best teachers at various London art schools. One of her bronze busts was accepted into the summer exhibition at the Royal Academy. And to this day, there are sculptures and paintings of hers around the world, from Scotland to Cambridge to Sussex to London and Los Angeles. They are treasured by those who keep them, not only for their artistry, but because they were so uniquely hers. You can trace the journey of her life through her art: her difficult early years, her family life, her darker days, her love of animals, the human form, and all organic forms of life on earth. They’re all there.
In 1995, when our mum moved to Scotland, at first it seemed like an unusual choice because she had always said preferred the warmer climate of southern Europe. But Scotland proved to suit her well. The (almost) 25 years in Dolphinton were probably the happiest, most stable years of her life. She was independent and able to concentrate on what she loved to do.
During this time she also became a grandmother. Wednesday and Alex were born and raised in California, so the Scottish countryside seemed like a magical place where their "Nammi" lived. (Nammi was the name Wednesday gave her when she couldn’t say Granny). Whenever we came to visit, my children found themselves surrounded by decades of curious art pieces in every room of the house. Their imaginations ran wild - Logie Bank was a haunted house where they saw ghosts in the sculptures, played with the plastic animals and pirate ship that Nammi had kept for visiting children, and they discovered lost sculptures in the overgrown mossy garden. One time, in her studio, they knocked over a clay model of a cheetah and it broke. Scared, they hid it inside a vase but when Nammi found it, she wasn’t angry. She just remodeled the wire maquette saying the new version was better that the original anyway.
As our mum grew old in Logie Bank, her physical health remained generally good. In 2006/2007, she came hrough a diagnosis and treatment of breast cancer quite well. However, the last two years were particularly difficult as her health declined due to Lewy Body Dementia. The strangeness of her new world was made stranger by the ongoing lockdowns, which meant prolonged separation from family and familiarity. Her dear Staffie Tasha could no longer live with her. As she slipped away month by month, she’d still show glimpses of her former personality, in a brief comic reaction to something on the telly, or a furrowed brow of disapproval. Her speech started to sound like abstract poetry, the kind she read and loved throughout her life. Even when the words didn't seem to make sense to most people, the three of us were sometimes able to find meaning in them.
Over the past 25 years, my mum and I would talk for an hour every Saturdaymorning. But her illness made it hard for her to talk a few years ago, and so I began to miss our lengthy weekly conversations. But most of my enduring memories of her now are of the times we found ourselves laughing helplessly at something we both found equally absurd and I will carry those with me forever.
Jeremy
That was Paul Tortelier playing the Prelude from Bach’s 1st Cello Suite. The cello was probably my mum’s favourite instrument, next to the piano, and she actually had cello lessons for a while in her adult life, I’m sure partly with the goal of being able to attempt those Bach Suites. She was passionate about music – many different types: Elvis, the Everly Brothers, the Beach Boys, Bob Dylan, as well as vast amounts of jazz and classical music, her particular favourites being Bach and Beethoven. She wasn’t afraid of “difficult” new music, either, and was a loyal supporter and concert goer on the contemporary art music scene. She could be equally passionate about music she didn’t like: the radio, usually tuned to Radio 3, would go off and on several times a day depending on what was playing. But, as with everything, her ideas and opinions weren’t set in stone and she would often change her mind about composers – even Wagner and Mahler who I remember she used to loathe had a late upswing in their popularity with her; she retained an open mind until the end.
She would often sing made up lyrics to some of her favourites – “And he did a little dance of rage” to Mozart’s 39th symphony; “Lights with a face” to Ravel’s Tombeau de Couperin and “Rag ears, rag ears” to Beethoven’s 2nd piano concerto - this last, one of many, many made up songs she would sing to the various Staffordshire Bull Terriers she shared her life with. Listening to music was one of the last things she and I were able to enjoy together, her face lighting up when she recognised a particular piece.
Her wide ranging but discerning tastes extended to her love of comedy too. We grew up with a backdrop of often inexplicable Goon Show and Monty Python quotes which I’m sure helped steer me towards my own interest in comedy; I still remember the excitement of being allowed to stay up late to watch Fawlty Towers, it being treated as a televisual landmark almost equivalent to the Moon landings.
As we got older and began to discover new generations of comedy and comedians that we thought of as our own; instead of dismissing them out of hand she would almost invariably approach them sceptically and then suddenly become won over by a chance line that made her laugh - and thereafter love them: it happened with the Young Ones, it happened with Alan Partridge, with Absolutely, and with Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer. In fact the surrealism of Reeves and Mortimer in particular made their mark on her daily lexicon; one of my fondest memories is of coming home very late from a party or something, trying unsuccessfully not to wake her up as I opened the front door, only to hear her voice calling from upstairs: “Is that Morrissey the Consumer Monkey”?
Father Ted was another favourite of hers which appealed to her from the off, possibly because of her background. In fact she quite seriously attributed her survival of cancer to the gales of laughter it would always elicit from her. And, again, as the end approached, she never lost her sense of humour, often laughing quietly to herself about something she found funny. Even though she could no longer express what it was, it still made us laugh too, as it always had.
The fierceness of her appreciation for what she liked was reflected in the unswerving but open-eyed love she always had for the three of us. And maybe it was that honesty and loyalty, combined with her anti-establishment egalitarianism, that instilled in all three of us a stronger moral code than any religion could have done, and all without us realising it.
Art Gallery
Memories
– Sue LimbI’ve been thinking of all the fun I had with Anna over the years. I met her when I was twelve, and I had a crush on Richie Benaud the Australian cricket captain. (He was gorgeous back then.) Anna used to tease me about it. She cut pictures of him out of the newspaper for me – cuttings I treasured. Then we embarked on a writing project – a long story, taking turns writing a chapter, set in Australia. In the story we were single mums living in the outback. I had a son called Richie (fathered by Richie Benaud): she had a son called Jem, fathered by… I don’t quite remember… But by then she had met Roger – at a girls’ grammar vs boys’ grammar hockey match. It was what passed for speed dating around 1960.
A bit later, when Anna and Roger were living in Finchley, I used to visit them. For me it was a bit of a challenge being surrounded by small children but Anna seemed perfectly at ease. She invented little signature tunes for her children – I remember the soft, owl like little hoot ‘Oooo!’ she associated with the infant Samantha. And when Christopher was a baby she called him ‘Pisule.’ Anna and I shared a susceptibility to migraine, and on one occasion in Finchley we suffered in unison, taking it in turns to rush to the loo. We laughed about it afterwards – but not at the time.
We had some holidays together. We went to Italy with Koomis and Kathleen, and shared a hotel room. (The old gals shared theirs, reminiscing about college days). It was so terribly cold in Venice, we had to go to bed wearing every single item of clothing we had brought with us. I remember Anna and I laughing hysterically at the preposterous situation as, still shivering despite seven layers of clothing, we tried to sleep in our little single beds, in our room overlooking the dank dripping canal. We also had some giggles about Koomis – one glass of wine at dinner and she would say, ‘I’m swerving!’
Another holiday was in Tobago. Anna and Samantha travelled separately, and Steve and I arrived a bit later I think. I found it suffocatingly hot, but Anna, with her golden skin, seemed to soak up the heat. I remember Anna and Samantha lying on the beach while a fishman cut up his catch nearby, and a wild pig snuffled about in the sand. Anna and Samantha, as two beautiful women sharing a holiday, might have been a target for local Casanovas, and we shared some laughs about that.
I remember how much Anna enjoyed little random everyday things, too: Jeremy’s outgoing message on his voicemail, eccentric people who walked past her house in Scotland, the crazy tricks of her Staffie friends, photos of Wednesday and Alex in fancy dress, and the parodying of politicans. Anna had an uncanny ability to imitate Margaret Thatcher and often had me in stitches. I think once we even busked the PM’s audience with the Queen, with me playing Her Maj. What I am remembering now is Anna’s readiness to smile, wit, her joie de vivre.
– Betsy VriendIt’s very difficult to write a tribute to someone who was such a huge part of my life when I was growing up, and who I didn’t spend enough time with in later years. I wish I had seen her more often; she was always fabulously fun and jolly, with an amazing sense of humour and self-deprecation, always keen to laugh.
The thing I remember most vividly about her was the fact that she always wanted me to have fun, and to enjoy every moment I spent with her. She was so affectionate and kind, warm and loving, creative. We used to paint together when I was very young, and she was so generous with both her time and her presents. When I visited her in both London and Scotland, she always wanted me to have to best time ever, taking me out on trips, looking after me with such kindness and care. I was in awe of my cousins, who seemed so grown up, clever and scintillating; Anna adored and was so proud of them, but she treated me like I was also important in my own way – she just seemed to love loving people.
I took such pleasure looking at her; she was dazzlingly gorgeous; her clothes were exquisite and immaculate – she always looked so elegant and beautiful. I remember her golden skin; her radiance. I think I remember some amazing earrings she used to wear.
There was something very precious in her; a vulnerability, a great gentleness which marked her out as Someone Special to me as a young child. She would talk to me as an equal; she knew exactly how to treat young children. It made me love her even more; she made me feel special myself.
She had a very dry wit and she absolutely loved to laugh. I remember so vividly watching Michael Jackson’s Thriller on VHS with her, either in London or in Scotland (or probably both, as we watched it several times!) and us both absolutely laughing hysterically over it (but also both entranced by Michael…)
To be honest I can’t believe she’s died. I wish I’d seen her more as an adult. It is a great loss to anyone who knew her and loved her. I will miss her very much.