212. The pocket handkerchief tree
On hankies and the risks we run when sorting the washing.
In which Rebecca takes a look at the beautiful Davidia involucrata in her parents’ garden and explains the importance of always carrying a hanky.
Dear Reader,
The pocket handkerchief tree, or Davidia involucrata, is a delight to behold in April and May, when it drapes its branches with the large white bracts which surround its flowers.
This springtime beauty is sometimes called the dove tree or the ghost tree, but in our family it’s always been the pocket handkerchief tree.
And here’s one of its dropped hankies, to prove the point:
It is part of my routine to always put a hanky into my pocket before leaving the house, because there’s nothing worse than needing to wipe my nose or eyes when I’m out and about and finding I’m caught short in the pocket linen department.
🤧
As a child it took me a long while to get into the habit, and I’d very often forget to collect a hanky of my own from the airing cupboard. Sometimes, out for a walk as a youngster with my parents, I’d find I needed to blow my childishly snotty nose, but having nothing other than my sleeve suitable for the job, Dad would find himself reaching resignedly into his pocket for his own decidedly grubby hanky and passing it over.
‘Here you are’, he’d say. And then quickly, if there was any risk of it being passed back to him, ‘No, why don’t you keep it? Put it in your pocket.’
At home it would be our job to sort the washing when it came out of the dryer. Sometimes Mum would come into the sitting room and empty the laundry basket of its fragrant contents right over us, and laugh as we’d fight over which beautifully-warm pieces to grab. We’d sort knickers, pair socks and stretch out tea towels, napkins and hankies into flat oblongs and squares, the growing weight of the pile doing some of the work that the iron would later finish.
My brother and I would take turns with the ironing. We’d be asked to do the hankies, napkins and tea towels, and, starting with the biggest, we’d layer them up, spraying water with a mister onto each piece to make the job easier once the pile made it onto the ironing board.
Parents’ evenings at school were not attended by pupils; instead, chats about their charges happened only between parents and teachers.
Options Evening, though, halfway through our third year at senior school1, was a different matter. Our entire cohort – 48 pupils, plus one or two parents belonging to each – descended on the school to hear what were essentially sales pitches by teachers each giving the hard sell for their own subject to encourage enrolments for their GCSE classes.
Some subjects, of course, were compulsory, which meant an evening off for those teaching maths, English and French, and Mum and I passed the desks set aside for history and home economics in order to give our full attention to the staff enthusing about geography and chemistry.
At one point Mum fished in her pocket for her hanky, having earlier pulled one from the unsorted basket of clean laundry on her way out of the house. It was unironed, and as she pulled the crumpled bundle up to her face she laughed, then thrust her bunched hand quickly back into her pocket. She was bright pink right to the tips of her ears.
‘What? What’s happening? What are you doing?’ I hissed far too loudly. A couple of my classmates were staring; their parents trying not to.
‘Shhhhh!’ spluttered Mum.
Later on, on our way back to the car, Mum reached into her pocket again.
‘Look!’ she giggled. Reader, she was holding a pair of knickers.2
🤣
In 2023 I published a post to mark my ninth wedding anniversary, in which I recounted having been frustrated to have woken up the day before our ceremony with a streaming cold.
Here’s what I said then about my hanky:
I added ‘EXTRA HANKY!!!!’ to my getting-married-tomorrow list. Reader, this was serious.
Eight press photographers were due to be there to mark our big day. We hadn’t done a deal with Hello! or OK! Magazine, and nor were they the paparazzi; no, these were friends, former work colleagues of my husband-to-be. And I wasn’t going to stand a chance of getting out of their way.
On the day itself I walked up the aisle of the village church with my dad, clutching my floral-sprigged – and already germy – hanky. And there was Jim at last – a six foot five vision in tweed – waiting for me. Our eyes met, and we both giggled.
As the rector welcomed everyone to the service I glanced up again at Jim. The biggest tear I’d ever seen was rolling slowly down his left cheek.
Without thinking, I reached up and dabbed his face with the damp hanky that was screwed up in my palm. A loud expression of ‘awww’ from our assembled guests filled the church with its sound, followed by eight – I didn’t need to count them – ‘tsks!’ in collective dismay from the pew containing Jim’s snapper friends.
Reader, they’d missed it. All of them.
Well, it could have been a lot worse. Given my family history we can all be grateful that at least it was a hanky I’d used to mop up Jim’s tear. Right, Mum?
Love,
Rebecca
If you like, you can read A teardrop on our wedding day in its entirety here:
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When I was 13. We were picking the subjects we were going to study for the next two years for our GCSE exams. GCSEs are taken at 15 or 16, and mark the end of compulsory school education in the UK. They’re equivalent to the high school diploma in the US.
Undies. Panties. Underwear. Pants. Undercrackers. Y’know.
I call mine either knickers or pants. I’m British, and over here pants are underwear, not trousers!
For heaven's sake, Rebecca. Your recounting of Jim's beautiful tear made ME tear up just now. Such a poignant memory. And that comical closing line! What an image it brought forth. I remember well the wedding photo you shared with us - tall Jim in his tweed jacket, tall Rebecca in her simple, vintage style gown. Both full of love. sigh
Such sweet vignettes, Rebecca, of handkerchief moments and handkerchief lookalikes!