Writer - Joan Wallace
|Joan Wallace - Writer
||Joan's writing, including four historical
novels set in Nottingham, has been locally and nationally published
in newspapers, magazines and broadcast on radio.
Joan has lived in Nottingham all her life.
She has written short stories, which have been locally and nationally
published in newspapers, magazines and broadcast on radio.
Her four historical novels, set in Nottingham have been published,
together with a book of humorous poetry.
She has also written plays and sketches, which have been performed
on stage, radio and at the Edinburgh Festival. An award-winning play
has been televised and her work has been performed in Australia.
There is an audio version of one of her novels for use by the blind
and some of her work has been accepted for study purposes by the universities
of Bristol and Arizona (USA).
Writer's Work - Raleigh Bike
Friday afternoons condensed Christmas Days. I never remember
it raining; the sun always shone on Dads lovingly polished Raleigh
Factory men, let out at half past four - released from sentence of
hard labour they filled the streets, a laughing, whistling flood.
Recognition Here I am, Dad. Been good at school not had
to stand in a corner today and I was Jane Eyre in a play.
Dark brown eyes mirroring mine, tired eyes that stared at shiny bicycle
pedals all day lit up as they smiled into the mischief in mine.
You scooped me up, my little girl legs jerking like a rabbits
till they were astride the saddle which was polished with the seat
of your overalls.
I leaned against you familiar reassuring smell of oil and factory
grease that ate its way into my soul, lubricated the beating of my
Sixpence from torn-open wage packet, all my wordly goods my family
I endow you leaned the bike against the wall, your substitute
for cowboys horse, gentlemans carriage, bank managers
Riley waited patiently whilst I spent my fortune on gobstoppers,
liquorice-stick and khali.
Bike wobbled home, cobbled road coaxed faint jingle from bell, saddlebag
held greaseproof snap paper recycled through necessity,
Sunday mornings shiny spokes cleaned with Brasso and old dusters,
rubber inner-tubes stretch tightly around my memory specks
of rust, chicken-pox red on black frame and painted Union Jack, on
pump that squeaked and made me laugh.
Mam gave your bike to the junk-man when you died perhaps it
went to a young lad who resurrected the youth you sacrificed on the
altar of family commitments and furniture on HP.
Scrap of metal, twisted into beauty when it rained you covered
your bike with an old mackintosh; Sir Walter Raleigh covered a puddle
with his cloak Raleigh bike and puddle have both gone down in history.