Material by Ros Barber My mother was a hanky queen when hanky meant a thing of cloth, not paper tissues bought in packs from late-night garages and shops, but things for waving out of trains and mopping the corners of your grief: when hankies were material she’d have one, always, up her sleeve. Tucked in the wrists of every cardi, a mum’s embarrassment of lace embroidered with a V for Viv, spittled and scrubbed against my face. And sometimes more than one fell out as if she had a farm up there where dried-up hankies fell in love and mated, raising little squares. She bought her own; I never did. Hankies were presents from distant aunts in boxed sets, with transparent covers and script initials spelling ponce, the naffest Christmas gift you’d get – my brothers too, more often than not, got male ones: serious, and grey, and larger, like they had more snot. It was hankie that closed department stores, with headscarves, girdles, knitting wool and trouser presses; homely props you’d never find today in malls. Hankies, which demanded irons, and boiling to be purified shuttered the doors of family stores when those who used to buy them died. And somehow, with the hanky’s loss, greengrocer George with his dodgy foot delivering veg from a Comma van is history, and the friendly butcher who’d slip and extra sausage in, the fishmonger whose marble slab of haddock smoked the colour of yolks and parcelled rows of local crab lay opposite the dancing school where Mrs White, with painted talons, taught us When You’re Smiling from a stumbling, out of tune piano: step-together, step-together, step-together, point! The Annual Talent Show when every mother, fencing tears, would whip a hanky from their sleeve and smudge the rouge from little dears. Nostalgia only makes me old. The innocence I want my brood to cling on to like ten-bob notes was killed in TV’s lassitude. And it was me that turned it onand eat bought biscuits I would bake if I’d commit to being home. There’s never a hanky up my sleeve. I raised neglected-looking kids, the kind whose noses strangers clean. What awkwardness in me forbids me to keep tissues in my bag when handy packs are 50p? I miss material handkerchiefs, their soft and hidden history. But it isn’t mine. I’ll let it go. My mother too, eventually, who died not leaving handkerchiefs but tissues and uncertainty: and she would say, should I complain of the scratchy and disposable, that this is your material to do with, daughter, what you will.

My mother was a queen of handkerchiefs when a handkerchief was made of cloth, not paper tissues bought in packs from late-night garages and shops, but things for waving out of trains and wiping away tears: when handkerchiefs were made of fabric she always had one up her sleeve. Tucked in the wrists of every cardigan, a mother's awkward lace embroidered with a V for Viv, spit-cleaned and scrubbed against my face. And sometimes more than one would fall out as if she had a farm up there where old handkerchiefs fell in love and produced little squares. She bought her own; I never did. Handkerchiefs were gifts from distant aunts in boxed sets, with clear covers and script initials spelling out 'fancy', the tackiest Christmas gift you’d get – my brothers too, more often than not, got male ones: serious, and grey, and larger, like they had more mucus. It was handkerchiefs that closed department stores, with headscarves, girdles, knitting wool and trouser presses; homely items you’d never find today in malls. Handkerchiefs, which needed ironing, and boiling to be cleaned closed the doors of family stores when those who used to buy them died. And somehow, with the loss of handkerchiefs, greengrocer George with his bad foot delivering vegetables from a Comma van is history, and the friendly butcher who’d slip an extra sausage in, the fishmonger whose marble counter of haddock smoked the color of yolks and packaged rows of local crab lay opposite the dancing school where Mrs. White, with painted nails, taught us 'When You’re Smiling' from a stumbling, out of tune piano: step-together, step-together, step-together, point! The Annual Talent Show when every mother, holding back tears, would pull a handkerchief from their sleeve and wipe the makeup from little ones. Nostalgia only makes me feel old. The innocence I want my children to hold onto like ten-bob notes was killed by TV’s laziness. And it was me that turned it on and ate store-bought biscuits I would bake if I’d commit to being home. There’s never a handkerchief up my sleeve. I raised neglected-looking kids, the kind whose noses strangers clean. What awkwardness in me stops me from keeping tissues in my bag when handy packs are 50p? I miss fabric handkerchiefs, their soft and hidden history. But it isn’t mine. I’ll let it go. My mother too, eventually, who died not leaving handkerchiefs but tissues and uncertainty: and she would say, should I complain of the scratchy and disposable, that this is your material to do with, daughter, what you will.