Inspirations & Connections | XV. A Sprig of Rosemary, A Moment Remembered
With rosemary blooming in the garden, we offer a sprig for remembrance, not only for mourning, but for gratitude, friendship, and the quiet miracle of being truly seen and valued.
Welcome to Rediscover · Reconnect · Re-Emerge. If you find the fleeting changes of modern life wearisome, maybe even overwhelming, join me on a journey, a path well-trodden, as I share heartfelt and often nostalgic reflections on living slowly, simply, and in tune with the seasons.
Community, and creating a sense of community, is so important to me, and to the world. In this series, taking a particular theme, I want to share with you some of the inspirations, connections and other communities which have enriched my life, in the hope that they may do the same for you too.
In Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Act IV Scene V, the grief-stricken Ophelia distributes symbolic herbs, uttering the lines:
“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray you, love, remember.”
Since then, ‘rosemary for remembrance’ has been a phrase steeped in symbolism: memory, fidelity, and mourning. In folklore, rosemary was planted at the graveside, a living emblem of continuity and enduring love. Even now, it flourishes, both in the kitchen and in studies exploring its potential to support the mind. A plant that has outlasted centuries, rosemary has a way of rooting itself in many aspects of our lives.
At this time of year, when rosemary bushes begin to flower and release their fresh scent into the warm, late-spring air, I often brush my hand across their soft, needle-like leaves. The fragrance lingers on the skin, grounding, calming, and familiar. It feels right to remember now.
Last month, I wrote about those who had shaped my creative soul, those special people who, often unnoticed, left a lasting impression. One of those was Rosemary Anne Sisson. I first came across Rosemary as a devotee of the 1970s drama series Upstairs Downstairs, where she appeared on the end credits as a writer. Indeed, she has been described as one of the finest period storytellers, with a long list of television and film credits to her name.
Born in 1923, she was the daughter of renowned Shakespeare scholar, Charles Sisson. In time, Rosemary herself became an academic, studying for an MLitt at Newnham College, Cambridge, and subsequently teaching at University College, London, and the University of Birmingham. Her first play, The Queen and the Welshman, was performed at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. It was later transferred to the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith in 1957, and broadcast on television.
From then on, an almost constant stream of credits rolled: The Six Wives of Henry VIII, Elizabeth R, Upstairs Downstairs, and The Duchess of Duke Street. She collaborated on the Disney films Candleshoe, The Watcher in the Woods, and The Black Cauldron. In 1995, she wrote the script for the military tattoo in Hyde Park to commemorate the 50th anniversary of VE Day. As a scriptwriter, playwright, author, dramatist, poet, academic, and novelist, she led a full and varied life as a spinster at her Parsons Green address.
I was fascinated by her career, her work essential to the enjoyment of millions, yet her name quietly consigned to the often-overlooked end credits. She wrote a book, aptly titled Rosemary for Remembrance, published in 1995, which contained reflections on her life and a selection of her poems. I was taken with her ability to use imagery, often drawn from the natural world, to tell a story and evoke a strong sense of place and time.
Tentatively, I approached her to ask if I could set two of the poems to music. Not expecting to hear back, I was delighted when I received an enthusiastic email in return. From that point on, a firm friendship was forged, me in my late 20s, her in her late 80s. I was eventually able to record the two songs and arranged to visit her so she could hear them.
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Rosemary was an extraordinary woman, with a house to match. I tentatively ascended the darkened steps of this tall, imposing London home, whereupon reaching the front door, I found three doorbells, side by side, with a note attached: ‘Ring all three bells loudly.’ She had a wonderful sense of humour, and indeed, as you might expect, the bells rang in different parts of the house. I’ll admit, she was a bit of a writer-idol, so it was more than a little nerve-wracking finding enough free fingers to ring all three bells at the same time.
Of course, I needn’t have worried. Eventually, the door flew open and, with the warmth and love of a long-lost relation, she threw her arms around me. She welcomed me, quite literally, with open arms. Her house was crammed top to toe with memorabilia from all the things she’d written - posters, programmes, props, photos, and all manner of paraphernalia. We spent a happy afternoon sitting at her kitchen table, Wimbledon on the television, reminiscing, eating and drinking as if we’d known each other forever.
In the short time we knew each other, she taught me a lot about life, much of which, only in retrospect, I realise was so important. She taught me that in a career like hers, you always had to trust that the next thing would appear. She never knew what it was going to be, but she trusted she would be able to turn her hand to anything that came her way. She taught me that, however hard the creative journey is, it is full of surprises, and almost entirely unpredictable. She could never have imagined that she would pen some of the most-watched television series and films, a career which would take her to Hollywood and beyond.
She taught me about growing old too, and the ever-present weight of a lifetime’s accumulated possessions. She was, in many respects, overwhelmed, like we all are, by too much ‘stuff’, past the age when she really wanted to be sorting it out. Years bent over her typewriter had caused her back problems, yet she swore by her osteopath. A devoted Christian, nothing more than the Book of Common Prayer was needed, and she had strong opinions, as I often do, about the direction of the modern church. She was always up for a good debate!
Although we corresponded at length by email, I had the privilege of meeting her in person just three times. The last time was when she was able to attend a concert at St Anne’s, Gresham Street, where the two songs were performed. Then in her early 90s, it was clearly still a joy for her to see her words come alive in a way she’d never imagined. It was another surprise in a life full of surprises.
After the concert, taking her by the arm, I accompanied her across the road to St Paul’s Underground Station. My last memory is of her descending the escalator, clinging on with one hand, and waving enthusiastically with the other, smiling ear to ear. In a strange way, there was something deeply symbolic in that moment, a gentle descent, a final parting, and the warm light of a life well lived. She died in 2017 at the age of 93.
I never really had friends, not close friends, so her unstinting friendship and interest, short as it was, felt embracing. She was loyal, a rare quality in our modern world. She was very ordinary, yet she’d led an extraordinary, long, and varied life. On the one hand, she could be the life and soul of the party (and the house had seen many an after-show gathering); yet on the other, she could offer quiet counsel and years of wisdom and experience. Age never mattered.
Now, with rosemary blooming in the garden and the evenings stretching long into dusk, I think of her. A sprig for remembrance, not only for mourning, but for gratitude, friendship, and the quiet miracle of being truly seen and valued.
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What an incredible woman! I love how people come into our lives when we need each other the most, even when neither of you realise it at the time. Beautifully written as always.
This is just beautiful. A real gift to remember and treasure. 🍃