What my father, Ted Hughes, taught me about putting on a brave face
Poet and artist Frieda Hughes is caught short on camera – but it reminds her of a touching family moment
THE INTERNATIONAL TOWN CRIER COMPETITION
Sometimes ‘International’ does not mean Wembley Stadium,
Or the O2 arena, or Brussels, or Rome or somewhere with traffic in gridlock,
Sometimes ‘International’ means the competition is down the road
In the small Welsh border town of Montgomery on a Saturday.
I’d watched the First Minister arrive with her smile,
Looking approachable in the audience, almost like one of us,
As handbells rang, and our crier announced the cries of announcement
From many mouths that shook buildings. The Town Hall trembled,
Resonance bouncing from its walls and pinning the chairs in the square
To the tarmac. The gold braid, the reds, the purples and blues
Constrained all girths and heights, one as tall as seven foot two.
Thinking the crowds would be gone and the celebrations over,
And that Sunday lie-ins would mean early morning emptiness,
I crept into town a day later, drab in hasty black and grey,
My undecorated face anonymous for a speedy exit with milk,
To find Town Criers gathering for a goodbye photo call.
The mayor in his chains of authority beckoned me, unadorned as I was,
To stand and be photographed for posterity. My father once told me:
“Never leave home without mascara and lipstick – just in case”,
I can almost hear him laughing.