Matryoshkas

‘During the Soviet era, the ‘State Planning Committee’ decided that it would be politic to make as many nesting Russian Dolls as possible, in order that each person on the Earth could get his/her own ‘matryoshka’. The factory dolls that were subsequently churned out had none of the appeal of the old hand-carved ones. Highly skilled old masters turned matryoshkas with very thin sides, which were considered to be a special artform. Painting matroykas was secondary. The professional artists who painted the first factory turned dolls did not treat them seriously enough. Without the native traditions, the matroyshka lost its charm and became an ordinary wooden toy, primitive and simple, but certain themes and patterns were still visible in their designs. The red and black Dog-Rose with many petals was the main element of the painted aprons. This flower was always considered to be a symbol of femininity, love and motherhood.’

Women are the real Russian dolls. Inside, are their children, growing and turning, their wooden faces emerging from the carving tool, their newly painted eyes blinking into awareness. Deeper within every doll is their mother, who only comes to the fore when the babies are born. That is when we realise what it is to have a mother and be a mother – the heart-churning, chest-rending ache of it, coupled with the sweetest indescribable joys. And when we first realise what our own mothers and grandmothers have achieved.

Within the Russian dolls of a family are the minute changes in appearance that dictate the changing generations – a misplaced mole or birthmark perhaps, a tendency to a long nose or a high forehead. Echoes from this genealogy create that striking sense of a family. When you walk into the room of someone else’s family gathering, there is a moment, while you are still an outsider, when you can see these clues. Laid out before you are a mass of pale-skinned, freckled, red headed folk, or the cast of The Cosby Show, or domed foreheads of every shape, size and age like Old Masters come to life. Whatever it is, you’ll see it that first time, as clearly as a brand on sheep. This is NOT your family. Your own family has blurred for you over time, until now all you see is its familiarity. Faces that might as well be your own in a mirror; you know them that well. Auntie this, Cousin that, who may be irritating as hell individually, but taken together reflect back your sense of yourself in the world. Like us Clarks.

My family is loosely from London, England. My mother’s side (Capon, Swetman, Hammon) moved out gradually, from Edmonton, North London to Hertfordshire and Essex, the Home Counties. My Dad’s family (Clark) have dispersed erratically to Bishops Stortford, Newmarket, and Clacton, and one or two to Spain, Israel, Tasmania. There is rarely a Clark family gathering anymore. The last was probably Grandad Joe’s 80^th birthday. I think I got stoned in someone’s car in a parking lot, and avoided the milling flesh in uncomfortable party clothes all dancing to bad disco in the marquee….

‘Sometimes matryoshkas portrayed the whole family, with numerous children and other staff members of households. There were matryoshkas devoted to historical themes. They described boyars (old Russia noblemen), legendary heroes, bogatirs (warriors), or Russian book characters. Those portraying older women would have their hair covered with kokoshniks; to portray young girls they painted hair ribbons. Black drake's feathers were stuck in the headdresses. The most popular dolls consisted of 3, 8 and 12 pieces, although in 1913 a 48-piece matryoshka made by N. Bulichev was displayed at the Exhibition of Toys in St. Petersburg. Some Russian dolls depict aspects of tea making. The Russian tea-making ceremony is reminiscent of the English one, i.e. tea is served in a teapot, with bread and jam, cakes and pies. It is normally served at 5pm (tea time) but also throughout the day, and especially when visiting a friends house. However, Russians might use a samovar to heat the water, instead of an English style kettle’.

And it really is a ceremony. No matter how corny, rushed or commonplace having a cup of tea has become, it’s a potent symbol of home and family. A cup of ‘tea and sympathy’ at times of stress or grief, a heartwarming mugful to dispel shock, the ritual teapot and dainty cups with saucers when an elderly relative, vicar, neighbour or potential in-laws call by. Those late night mugs of chocolate, or continental shots of coffee are all very well, but someone only has to say ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ and I feel cosseted and welcomed. I can differentiate old boyfriends and their families by different styles of tea. The dilute milky taste of Mark’s tea, the harsh tannin laced with copious sugar of Steve’s Irish family. Joe dubbed Auntie Doreen’s ‘Guinness tea’, relishing its rich copper colour and dense flavour - that ‘puts hairs on your chest.’ And now everyone drinks green tea, red tea, fruit tea, camomile tea, Earl Grey, Darjeeling, ice tea, tea with soya milk, tea with honey…

Nanny Em’s tea was the best. One bag of PG Tips per person, and one for the pot. Scalding hot water in the teapot and straight on with the woolly tea cosy, on a tray, surrounded by little plates of French Fancies, or Swiss Roll, or a slice of homemade apple pie. The cups were a mismatched combination of white porcelain fluted cups with a gold rim, and smaller, squat white cups with a pale pink tea rose pattern, all on plain white saucers. Inevitably, I spilled some tea in the saucer, trying to sit on her plump cushioned sofa. Grandad would slurp his tea noisily out of his saucer afterwards, to the delight of us kids, sat waiting for Nan to rebuke him for his manners. Whereupon he’d roll his eyes at her, and pull a goony face at us, jutting out his lower jaw to show us his one peg of a tooth. The tea itself tasted mild, warm and soft - the type of tea that rolls round inside your mouth and is fit to drink alongside Southend’s best battered rock eel and chips, or after a late tea of marmite soldiers and runny egg, or with early morning smoked kippers, bread and jam.