Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

By M.J Boyle

By 2022 an increasing number of Britons were asking themselves “what has gone wrong?”

Great Britain – a nation with an imperial history, a nation of profound innovators, a nation steeped in tradition and pride. The more complex the picture, the more difficult it is to see clearly exactly what the problems are. Solutions are rarely blindingly obvious and yet the seeds of the problems may well be staring us in the eye. Either in the conference room, at the dinner table, or in the mirror.

Here we accompany a typical British family from 1955 to 2022. Their dialogues reveal historical parallels and interesting insights into perceived “Britishness” over this period. Their lives and their beliefs, their travels and experiences, their attitudes, and expectations, expose them for what they are: an average family of the time. For they, and others like them, were weaving the thread into the British flag. The respective comments take us down the path leading to the social and political situation of 2022.

The mirror held before us shows that what Abraham Lincoln once said remains true today: “you’ve got to do your own growing no matter how tall your grandfather was.”

Every single person has the possibility to change what they see in their own mirror, and in society’s mirror. All that is necessary is to acknowledge that needs must.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398444607

M.J Boyle

M.J Boyle was born in the mid 1950s in the North, grew up in the South of England but has spent her adult life in Europe. Her strong ties to her home country and her sincere affection for Britain influenced her career in teaching English as a foreign language. As a university lecturer and Business English teacher she remains an avid observer not only of British society but also of the political landscape in Great Britain. She lives with her family in the South of Germany.

Book preview

One

"I remember, quite clearly in fact …

That beautiful old house in the Meir, Stoke-on-Trent, in the 1950s. A middle-aged couple, (M: Maurice & L: Lill) originally from Ireland, lived there. They had four grown-up children. One daughter married and living nearby, one son a qualified accountant and living in Liverpool, one daughter still living at home, and one daughter, with her first child (MJ: Julia), living with them while her husband was away in the Navy. It was most lively in the huge kitchen with an oversized table in the middle, scrubbed down multiple times a day. A few chairs around the table, but no signs that anyone ever actually ate there. It was definitely more a ‘working’ table."

M: What a sight for my poor, tired eyes, my wonderful wife and a freshly baked Victoria Sandwich cake. And that on a humble Wednesday. What more can a man ask for?

L: Not for you today, my dear. It is for our guests.

M: I don’t recall. For sure, our Lizzie’s in-laws aren’t coming till Sunday.

L: Well, ’twas a spur of the moment thing. I was at the baker’s this afternoon to get some bread for your tea and I was witness to a woman being turned out, and I believe, just ’cos she was Irish.

M: Jesus, what have you done?

L: I just got talking to her, she used to live in our old Grosvenor Square in Rathmines. I couldn’t just leave her there, could I?

M: So, you’ve brought her back here?

L: Yes. With her four children. And her husband. They are in a right dreadful state. Can’t afford anything. He’s lost his job at the factory. She couldn’t pay for the bread.

M: You’ll be the death of me, you and your kind heart. Where are they, then?

L: In the front room. I’ll be bringing them some tea and the cake, then.

M: You do that. And I’ll have a think what we can do for them. For sure, there’s no place here for them.

L: (placing a peck on the man’s cheek) You’re a good man, Maurice Boyle. You’ll think of something.

Heavens above, that woman had a heart of gold! There’s no two ways about it. Seemed she had forgotten how she had been treated back home. They wouldn’t give her the time of day after she announced she would wed a protestant. Her parents didn’t even consider acknowledging the vows. Not to their dying days. Stubborn to the core and blind with pious aloofness. And yet, there she was, following her heart and helping where she could. She was determined not to go down their road, she felt religion to be an enrichment, not a ball and chain. She was even accommodating when it came to the daughter’s parents-in-law – staunch Brits if ever I saw any.

L: There’re settled at the coffee table. Sure, they’re overwhelmed.

M: I understand you, I really do. But, love, we have to think of ourselves, as well. We’ve a lot to lose ourselves if we back the wrong horses.

L: Think of the poor children.

M: I am, I am. But I am also thinking of our children. They need us to be the perfect citizens in order to find their place in this country. We need them to settle as perfect British citizens. They need to be accepted. Why down near the station there are signs in the boarding houses, the owners don’t want the Irish there. We can’t be seen to be boarding them here.

L: I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Is this really you speaking?

M: ’Tis indeed. The voice of rational thought. Now, listen carefully. After they’re done with the tea and cake, take them, and their travel bags, out the back.

L: What!

M: Listen, listen. At the end of the old stable block is the old-time stablemaster’s dwelling. Not much, and not in good nick, but it is a roof over their heads. And, it is out of view. Even the ice-cream man won’t notice them when he parks his cart in the stable.

L: I knew you’d find a solution.

M: They have to work for it, though. They’ll have to clean it up and make it into a proper place to sleep and the likes. The man can help with the garden until he gets a proper job. Maybe I could persuade the foreman at the pottery to give him a chance.

L: I’m speechless.

M: Now that’s something I thought I’d never experience. Trot off now and see how they feel about it. But make no mistake, if anyone notices what we are doing – we have to stop.

"Good Lord, did he know what he was risking? Letting the man work in the garden. He was bound to see the pigs. His secret would be out. The whole family thought he had taken them to the slaughter house. No-one knew he was a softie, really. His heart was as big as her’s, for sure. His head was screwed on quite properly, though. He knew they had to be seen to be acting as expected of them. As expected of ‘proper’ citizens. They couldn’t afford to be seen as common Irish folk. They had a good head start; a large house, money in the bank, a well-paid job, an intact family – even the accent was coming along fine. Potteries and Irish mingling together and, when out of the house, harmonizing to the extent that hardly anyone would notice the sneaky Irish undertones. On the one hand, he wished to be able to leave the past behind, on the other, the past hadn’t been all bad. On the one hand, he wanted to be part of this new country – on the other he saw some uncomfortable traits in the ways of the ‘natives’. Bottom line was that he was enjoying life here. It felt good and he was content with his life and his family. Gone were the harsh comments and the aggressive looks of the neighbours, passers-by, why even family members, they remain only in his memory and were there fading fast. Love was such an overwhelming feeling, how could anyone expect a mere man to ignore it, just because his chosen one was a catholic and he a lowly protestant? Indeed, here he could be himself, true to himself. His wife could be herself, true to herself. They didn’t have to hide and they didn’t have to create a facade of illusions. They could be honest, faithful and – yes, generous. When he said, all is OK, it was because all was OK. The idea of keeping up appearances was foreign to him. It took a while