A sophisticated beauty with dark lips, a black hat, and an incredible talent to inflict pain and trauma. Beautiful words to describe one's grandmother: Edith "Edie" Clarke at her best.
As irony would have it, I, Victoria, look so much like her. For many years, I got a disgusting feeling when someone mentioned how my face looked like a spitting image of the lady I am supposed to call Granny—a lady so wrapped up in her evil and painful imaginary world.
But let me start with the relatively mild unpleasantries of growing up: the family farm, dreary mornings, a lot of annoying cousins running around, and a sound that can only be described as something out of a horror movie. It was a regular and ritualistic pig slaughter.
For those lucky enough to have never witnessed it—oh, do I envy you—let me describe. The rain was irritating enough to make you wet but not strong enough to require an umbrella. A grey backdrop from the barns and the sky. The pig's jarring cry—a sound so raw and unsettling it seemed like the Antichrist came to pick up the unfaithful himself. The smell was just as haunting as the sound. A propane burner was applied to the skin to eliminate unwanted tiny hairs. Blood was running down the muddy backyard like lava escaping an erupting volcano, leaving equally devastated bystanders. Harsh and heavy knives—to be precise, axes—flew through the air.
Watching Edie dismantle a 200 kg pig was like watching Sweeney Todd perform his cuts. It was art—traumatising, but still art. No wonder I was not too fond of the taste or smell of meat growing up. But that changed when I met my husband, Julian Blackwood, the love of my life who inspired me to eat rare steaks and hunt.
I am the eldest sister and the first grandchild—the smart and chubby one. Growing up the characteristics that annoyed my family the most was my quiet stubbornness. I understood my place and tried to fit in, but I always ended up with half-solutions.
On the one hand, you have a girl applying red lipstick since age four and creating successful yet imaginary businesses. On the other, a kid climbs big trees while waiting for her 20-plus-year-old crush to come and take her down. The internal struggle of a damsel in distress and an "I can do it all by myself" entrepreneur.
I remember being six years old, sitting in the bathtub surrounded by bubbles that smelled of pinecones. The warm water embraced me as I pondered the concept of death. It wasn't a morbid fascination but a curious exploration of stories whispered by adults who thought I wasn't listening. I would watch the soap suds slowly dissolve, imagining life as transient. Why do people have to go away? Where do they go? These questions floated in my mind. Even at that tender age, the weight of impermanence settled on my small shoulders, intertwining innocence with a precocious depth that seemed out of place for a child. Perhaps it was the influence of the books I secretly read, or maybe it was just a part of who I was—forever caught between childish wonder and adult contemplation. Those evenings became a ritual of sorts. I would sink beneath the water, holding my breath, eyes open to the distorted world above the surface. The muffled sounds and blurred lights made me feel like I was in another realm, perhaps where people went when they left this world. It was terrifying and comforting, a secret escape I knew.
The bathtub became more than just a place for contemplation; it sparked my desire to explore the depths beyond the porcelain walls. The sensation of being submerged and the freedom of movement beneath the water's surface ignited a passion for swimming. I begged my parents to enrol me in swimming lessons. At first, they were hesitant, perhaps thinking it was another fleeting whim of a child. But my quiet stubbornness prevailed. Soon, I was diving into pools instead of bathtubs, each stroke propelling me further away from the uncertainties that clouded my young mind. Swimming became my sanctuary, where the weight of unanswered questions lifted as I cut through the water with determined grace. Before long, I did not just swim but competed. The thrill of the race and the exhilaration of victory consumed me.
Do you want to know what a childish whim is? Me playing the piano and painting—or at least attempting to. Weirdly, I always felt connected to Van Gogh and his orchards. Now, I can draw a parallel between his apricot blossoms and my sense of peace when looking at them. Apricot trees were the only holy and gentle aspect of my grandparents' farm amid those awful pig slaughters. Apricots are my escape. I also like to eat them, especially the pits—perhaps because of their cyanide content.
And what has changed in these 30 years? Well, it's safe to say not that much.
I, Victoria Primrose, am still trying to determine whether I am a damsel in distress who needs help or a bold, red-lipped trailblazer.