Clarrie
Clarrie is a community wellbeing development worker for a Leeds charity.
Her husband Mick died in 2012.
“Because I grew up poor, it was always ‘Put a jumper on!’ ‘Put another jumper on!’ ‘Put a dog on!’ And if you were still cold, well, knit yourself a blanket!
At the charity we’ve got a group called The Seacroft Hookers. It’s a craft term, that. We meet every Tuesday night. Crochet is very mindful. Your hands are moving, it’s very soothing. I think it’s the repetition.
I loved making big, crocheted blankets - I’d make them for people to take away with them. Now I make tiny little flowers. Real flowers are lovely but they don’t last long.
You see people start believing in themselves and before you know it, they’re flying. It’s just beautiful; a real privilege.
We’re all in companionable silence until someone feels moved to speak.
We laugh and we cry and we hug and we drink tea and eat cake. We’re all sharing our journey.
There was a club over the road from where we used to live. They had a George Formby Society called The Pudsey Plonkers. I decided I’d have a go. The week after that, Mick dropped dead from a pulmonary embolism.
He was 52. Absolutely gorgeous, 6 foot tall, long hair. We met doing 17th century reenactment. We were friends, then one night we kissed. That was it.
After he died, we kept going to the Pudsey Plonkers. They asked if I wanted to come to Blackpool for their conference. So I did. All these old men, 80-odd, with ukuleles hobbling onto the stage and playing to a backing track. It was absolutely brilliant.
I performed there for the first time as the Ukelele Pirate Queen. God knows where she came from. I suppose it was me using that grief and that pain to create this other persona. A bit Diana Dors-y, but tongue in cheek. I had a magic lipstick that I’d put on before I played to give me confidence.
It was a really wild adventure for a couple of years: travelling, going round different groups, shows, festivals.
“Crochet is very mindful. Your hands are moving, it’s very soothing. I think it’s the repetition.”
But the house just felt so quiet and still without him. Mick was a drummer; he was always tapping and whistling. I spent two years trying to fill the emptiness. Two years waiting for him to turn the key in the lock.
Finally, I realised he wasn’t coming back.
I didn’t understand the term bereft until I lost Mick. I don’t think you can unless you’ve been through it.
It’s like your insides don’t match how your world is.
When I was with Mick’s body. I looked at him all cold and I thought, there’s not a word I’ve said that I regret. And there’s nothing I haven’t said. I’m so blessed to have known him.
How many people are that lucky?
I was teaching when I met Mark and the kids were always asking ‘Which husband do you love more?’ I’d say, ‘It’s not like you have a bucket of love to last you for your life. You’ve got a hosepipe and it just keeps coming.’
Me, Mick and his brother all had the same birthday: the 24th March. And so six years later on his anniversary, I was exactly the same age he was when he died.
I didn’t know how to mark it. I didn’t know how I was going to feel. But that morning, I stopped off at the supermarket and bought a birthday cake and a candle with a zero on it.
I thought, right I’m living this life that he never got to live. And I took the cake into work and celebrated.
My attitude is ‘Make the most of it’. Have a go. Don’t worry that you’ll be crap at it. Encourage other people.
I’m 57; I’ve potentially got another 30 years left. I still get my knotty moments, but that’s because I’ve lived a life well-loved.
And that’s all any of us can hope for.”
You can find out about the Seacroft Hookers crafting group here.
Written by Laura McDonagh