Tullen

On courage, matriarchy, family and childhood memories

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.  – Anais Nin

I just have to close my eyes to go back to my childhood’s summers in the Norwegian mountains. The taste of extraordinary thick and yellow sour cream, collected in a bucket that morning from the nearby farm, eaten gleefully with a layer of sugar on top. That’s how she taught me to enjoy something that is now as elusive as her. Tall, slim, with short, dark hair, dressed in a tweed suit but usually booted - ready for anything, whether it be cutting down trees to make a better view from the cabin, or seeing me off as I went on my first trip abroad on a plane. She was my mother’s cousin and close friend, and a natural part of family holidays and weekends, often accompanying her mother, for all of my childhood. She didn’t have a family of her own, but doted on me and my brothers. She would empty out her pockets and hand me all her coins if I was off somewhere with a friend, not even counting them up first. Generosity seemed to come instinctively, despite not having much money herself – something I’ve only worked out in hindsight. She certainly looked and acted with such class that money seemed too trivial to matter to her. The word “ladylike” fitted her to a tee – but I don’t know if real ladies are as physically capable as she was. She could lift heavy rocks and pull weeds like a farmer. She often worked with my father and uncle all day, like one of the guys.

She was older than my mother, but much younger than my grandmother, but her age was not part of who she was – she was uniquely Tullen. Her real name was Vibeke Elisabeth, but the nickname Tullen – meaning small girl – stuck. She was a French teacher and a Francophile, as well as an Anglophile. She would read Le Monde and The Times every day, and encouraged me to read and do well at school. When I was about 16, she gave me a copy of Ayn Rand’s biography. She would never disclose her own political allegiance, though, but I think I’m being fair when I say she was no social democrat (and that’s rare – most Norwegians are, to some degree).

Our summers and Christmases were spent in the company of Tullen, my grandmother, who was widowed, and her sister, Tullen’s mother and also a widow. My mother was the youngest of these matriarchs, and I think she learned a lot from them, especially cooking, baking and how to be good hostess. Tullen and her mother threw elaborate, formal dinner parties, with the best silver and beautiful crockery. Tullen collected a whole set of Hungarian porcelain, which I received from my mother when I got married – she was her sole inheritor and Tullen died when I was in my early twenties. I remember the parties Tullen and her mother hosted very well. Most of the guests would be in their fifties and over, dressed in their finest, and the wine and good stories would be flowing. There were witty speeches, sometimes by Tullen, and many courses were served - elaborate starters, perhaps venison or ptarmigan in a cream sauce for the main course, and something like sherry pudding to finish. The men would drink cognac, and there would also be coffee and cakes as the party went on and on. I don’t know if I and my brothers, often the only children there, would get bored. I think I enjoyed the atmosphere and listening to the gossip enough to keep me entertained.

Those were the good memories. It’s another world from the one we live in now, another era that seems very far away. Although this was the eighties and early nineties, it might as well have been the sixties. Tullen and her family (mother, aunts, uncles, cousins) and friends were of a generation which appreciated traditions, and carried on the way they had been brought up. But Tullen was far more than a small town socialite.

When Tullen became sick, shortly after her own mother had died, she had to move out of the beautiful, pink brick house on the hill where she had lived and looked after her mother - a very strict and strong-willed woman – for many years. Her brother forced her to move, as he wanted half of the proceeds from the property, which were rightly his. She had already been diagnosed with cancer then, and my family was horrified that her own brother could treat Tullen this way. She moved into a small flat with her cat, and as she deteriorated, my mother would visit frequently, and stayed with her towards the end. My mother never had a sister, but Tullen was as close as one. When Tullen died, she bequeathed everything to my mother. After her funeral, my brothers and I sat in the car as her will was read out. When her brother stormed out of the room and marched angrily towards his car, I knew instantly what had happened. Tullen may have been generous, but not stupid. Her loyalty to my mother was not surprising to me, but her gumption until the very end had clearly surprised her brother.

I don’t know if Tullen’s life was, on balance, more happy than tragic. For all her quirkiness, elegance and style, her wit and intellect, she endured many disappointments. She had been engaged to Keki, an equally elegant young man whom I’ve only seen a black and white photo of, when she spent time in the US working at a newspaper. He was Indian, and her mother didn’t approve. Later she was engaged to a local doctor, back in Norway, but he wanted to move to Spain, and again, her mother didn’t approve. She remained single and childless, suffered a nervous breakdown and spent time in a psychiatric hospital. Her middle age and onwards was spent looking after a mother who had denied her only daughter the happiness of her own family. A feminist analysis may point to the “patriarchy” when women are held back; but other women can and do sabotage each other, even their own daughters. “Woman is woman worse,” is a clumsily translated Norwegian saying, meaning women can be each other’s worst enemies. That mothers can fall into this category is a sad fact.

But although Tullen didn’t have any children of her own, I know she was proud of me. I never achieved anything spectacular in her lifetime – or after, I should add – but she was very pleased that I was going off to London to go to university. As a linguist, she was proud of my good marks in French, German and English, and rooted for me when I entered youth politics – still never disclosing her own political preferences. I think she would be pleased that I have my own, large family. I wonder if having four children has been part of a subcounscious wish to replicate the large family gatherings of the past.

Apart from being an interesting woman, leading a varied life (not at all done justice in this short essay), I’m not sure there is a moral or message to draw from her life. But I come back to another Anais Nin quote, quite by chance: Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage. A person with Tullen’s attributes could easily have done so much more. Perhaps if her own father had lived longer, he would have supported her and pushed her to leave the nest and forge out her own life? Perhaps Tullen’s story is a reminder to grasp the opportunities and have a bit more courage – courage Tullen may have lacked for herself, but courage she tried hard to impart on me.