What would you do if you heard the sound of whistling from an empty room? (Image: Adobe Stock)
Julia lay in her bed, slightly annoyed with herself that she had woken up, but also a little uneasy. She looked at her clock. 2.48am. A cursed time. Maybe one day she might actually get to stay asleep all night. She turned over, tried to settle down, but there was still that uneasy feeling. Something had woken her. It wasn’t her usual random night-time waking. She lay in the dark, listening.
The house sounded different. Silence, but there was a quality to that silence as if it was listening, too. There! Something – a soft ‘thump’ as if something had been dropped in the living room below. Her heart quickened. She knew there should be no-one there. She had no pets, and she had been alone since – but there it was again, another thump, and then a sound that turned her blood to ice.
Someone was whistling. In the dark, downstairs, where no-one had any business being. The sound was faint, but clear. The piece was one she knew very well. Barber’s Adagio – it had been one of his favourite pieces. Complex for a whistling tune, but still, if it’s in your head, he would say, you can dum-dum, or hum, or la-la, but nothing beats a pursing of the lips and a good old whistle, does it?
She must be going mad. It sounded like him, downstairs, but it couldn’t be, it couldn’t because –
Her heart pounding in her ears, she slid out of bed and crept downstairs. The whistling grew lounder as she approached the living room door. There was another soft thump. That’s what he’s doing, she thought, he’s going through the books, finding something, a reference, as he does. Did. On the other side of that door. She pictured him as he whistled his way to the end of the first movement, flicking through a book, putting it down, pulling out another, his glasses on his nose, his lips pursed. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
The whistling stopped. A cold blast of air hit her. The French doors were open – had she left them like that? – and a pile of books was on the coffee table, but there was no one there. Certainly not her husband, God rest his beautiful soul.
Queen Elizabeth II was the mother of our nation. My own mother felt a strong link to her from childhood. Image by WikiImages from Pixabay
Before I tell you what this is about, I will set out what it is not about. It is not a debate about the monarchy, nor is it a misty-eyed retrospective on the Queen’s life. There is enough of that elsewhere.
This is chiefly about my mother, Iris Martin, and also about my own childhood, and how I got to the stage where I felt the news of the Queen’s death as if I’d lost a favourite aunt. Why I, as a working class Midlander who at times hasn’t even had the proverbial chamber pot, let alone the accompanying exit window, has shed tears and will no doubt shed more at the passing of our indisputably noble Queen.
I love the Queen. She may have passed, but my love for her has not. I always have loved her, and I (mostly) respect the Royal Family, those who deserve respect, anyway; I was brought up to do so. This was due in large part to my mother’s interest in the Queen, in her life and growing family, which began in her own youth and continued throughout mine. If there was an event, we were watching. We celebrated, as a family. Princess Anne’s wedding to the dashing Captain Mark Phillips was viewed in glorious monochrome, digested, discussed and dissected. When the Queen visited Coventry during her Silver Jubilee tour in 1977, my mother and I were among the crowds lining the streets enroute to the Memorial Park. I remember a glimpse of a smiling face, a waving, white-gloved hand. There was an atmosphere of joy and excitement as we waited, loud cheers, jubilation and a flurry of flags as the Queen’s car drove past. I loved the street party on our crescent, every neighbour in their best clothes, long tables groaning with food to which all had contributed. I stuffed myself with sandwiches and cake, then tore around with my friends as we made the most of the street’s closure. I sang the National Anthem in church, at Brownies and Guides, and at school, with the words as indelibly fixed in my mind as the Lord’s Prayer. To me, the Queen and the Royal Family were and are a big part of what it means to be British. And, despite all the chaos, deprivation, disquiet and dissent in this country, I am still proud to be British, although not especially proud of all Britain has become, all it’s done in the past, or indeed all of what it stands for now.
Still, the Queen. Other memories surface. My father, John Martin, was fiercely patriotic in the way characteristic of an ex-British Army soldier and Northern Irish protestant living in England. He would stand to attention at the end of the evening’s TV broadcasting and salute as the National Anthem was played. He did this without irony, it seemed to me, although I was bemused by it. Then I remember my mother, getting ready to go out, joking that people told her she looked like the Queen, as she put on a posh voice, patted her lacquered hair and smoothed her skirt. In my eyes, she truly did, especially when she was dressed up. She was certainly queen of our household.
My mother, Iris Burdett, in the uniform of the Womens Auxilliary Air Force, aged 20
My mother, born Iris Maud Burdett in 1919, was six years old when Princess Elizabeth was born. As a contemporary, my mother’s curiosity about the young Princess was natural. Both were born in the aftermath of one war, and under the threat of another. Both were in the Armed Forces – my mother in the Womens Auxilliary Air Force (WAAF), Princess Elizabeth in the Auxiliary Territorial Service. As young women close in age, they wore similar fashions. And, although Princess Elizabeth married and began having children earlier than my mother, they experienced marriage and parenting contemporaneously. Both had four children, three boys and one girl. The Queen had her darker times, notably her ‘annus horribilis’ of 1992 when Princess Anne got divorced and a huge fire destroyed a large part of Windsor Castle. Again in 2002, when she lost both her mother and sister within weeks of each other. Many other well-known griefs and tribulations, notably the death of her beloved Philip last year, have occurred within her life, and do not need repeating here.
My own mother’s trials and tragedies were many, starting with the death of her own mother when she was just four years old. My mother’s first child, my brother Michael, was born with severe disabilities due to cerebral palsy, and died in the spring of 1966 when he was just fifteen years old. She also lost her husband, my father, in 1982 when he was 63, going on to live almost a third of her life without him. Around and between, my mother experienced many other life difficulties which the riches and privilege of royalty may well have mitigated or rendered obsolete. However, like the Queen, she drew strength in her unshakeable, lifelong Christian faith which she held fast to until the very end.
In many ways and for most of her life, my mother identified with, and sympathised with, the Queen. She admired, respected and even empathised with her, and I believe this is why I cannot think of the Queen without thinking of my mother. Both women were generous, kind, hard-working, and loyal to family and country. They had a dignity, courage and humility which appears to be the birth right of the generations who grew up in and around the two world wars. Both women inspired love and loyalty in those who knew them. Both had a dazzling smile which lit up their faces and brightened any room they entered. Both had a well-known, dry, slightly cheeky sense of humour. Both were fond of a sensible ‘A’ line skirt, a simple string of pearls, a firmly set hairdo, matching hats, shoes and bags, and bright, neatly applied lipstick. Both would finish their toilette with a puff of face powder, and a dab of a favourite scent. They also had similar colouring, with dark hair, pale, pinkish-toned skin and bright blue eyes. The same stature, with the Queen just a little taller.
I lost my mother in November 2013, at the age of 94. I am used to being without her now, but I cannot say I am over it. I do not believe we ever get over the death of loved ones, we just absorb their loss as part of us. Before my mother died, she had, over a number of years, gradually withdrawn from engagement with life. In September 2013, an infection put her in hospital, and from there to a nursing home for her final month. She maintained her sharp mind and her sense of humour until close to the end. The last photograph I have of her was taken in the nursing home, sitting up in bed, smiling, wearing her glasses which she had carefully cleaned. She was so very frail, a shadow of herself, yet she wanted to present her best self to my camera, perhaps realising it would be the last time. I remember her purple hands and the bruises on her arms, her papery, delicate skin marked from medical procedures.
When I saw the pictures taken of the Queen just before her final meeting with the outgoing and incoming Prime Ministers, it reminded me of that photograph of my mother, and the circumstances in which it was taken. Seeing the Queen standing there, smiling bravely, so frail and tiny, it broke my heart a little. And so, even though the Queen’s death was not really a surprise, it has hit me with great force. Everything I remember from losing my mother has come flooding back. The Queen was the mother of the nation, inextricably linked with my own beloved mother in my mind. There will never be another British Queen in my lifetime, and there will never be another like Queen Elizabeth the Second, Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor. May she enjoy her eternal rest – she has undoubtedly earned it. Who knows, maybe my mother will get to meet her at last.
She wore a long white coat, with a white woollen hat pulled down over her ears. Her long straight hair flowed out from under it, which was the palest blonde, almost, yes, white. Translucent skin the colour of spilt milk, eyes the clean blue of the sky on a clear January morning, pale as chips of glacial ice. Tall and thin, like Jack Frost’s younger sister.
Her name was Erica, but her friends called her Snow, although it was nothing to do with her colouring. People still talked about the day when, back in infants school, at home-time on a day when it had snowed steadily since lunchtime, she had run out onto the snow-covered lawn, stripped off all her clothes and rolled around in it, giggling. Her mum had swept her up into her arms and taken her inside to the school nurse, who pronounced her unscathed by her adventure. All she really remembered from that day was how delicious the snow felt on her skin; how much herself she had felt, how liberated and free, during those precious few moments.
She walked, now, or to be more accurate, stomped, through the six-inch-thick white carpet that spread in all directions from her parent’s house and across most of the British mainland. Her Samoyed dog, Ice, hauled on his lead, his fluffy white fur almost invisible against the snow. This was his weather, and his wide smile showed it. Hers, too. So rare it happened here. Why had she ended up in the home of a family in the English Midlands, she often asked herself, where it snowed but rarely? There was sometimes a short spell of snowy weather in January, and maybe the odd flurry through winter, if they were very lucky. Some years, nothing at all.
Erica knew she didn’t belong here. She looked Scandinavian, everyone said, and she felt it, too. When she was a little girl, people would often ask where she got her colouring from, looking doubtfully at her dark haired parents and narrowing their eyes critically at her mum in particular. That stalwart matriarch would fold her arms and stare defiantly back. “From the angels who brought her to us,” she would reply, daring them to say more. When Erica was a little older, her parents took her aside for a talk. Told her that, yes, it was true, Mum hadn’t actually birthed her. Erica had been (and this was where it grew vague) a gift. What kind of person gives a baby as a gift, she had wondered? Who or whatever it was, they had blundered, they had brought her to the wrong country, even though she loved her parents dearly and wouldn’t wish for any others. She would dream of Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Iceland, Greenland, even Svalbard in the High Arctic, with its reindeer and polar bears. That was paradise as far as Erica was concerned.
It could be worse, she told herself often. At least they had some snow, sometimes. But Svalbard’s two-and-a half-month-long darkness would be preferable to this tepid, damp place, which, for the months between May and September, became a living hell for her. In those long, painful summer months, when not enduring the purgatory of school, she would hide indoors, the electric fan blowing over her damp skin, reading about cooler climes. On the hottest days she would lie in a bath of cold water, sucking ice cubes and longing with all her heart for the winter, picturing frosty days and bitter nights, the moon surrounded by a huge ice-crystal halo. She could only ever be truly herself when the snow came. She thrived in the cold, she loved the feeling of it; ice did not hurt her skin but cooled it so she felt comfortable. Most of the time she was burning. She only wore clothes at all because it was what society demanded, and she only wore outdoor clothes in winter to keep her parents happy. Her instincts screamed against it, but she had learned the hard way that some things had to be borne.
Erica never smiled in the summer, or even spring or autumn. In fact, she would only break into a smile when snowflakes started to spiral down from the white winter sky. Then, her face would light up, and she would run out, laughing, to welcome their cold beauty, arms stretched wide, head flung back, staring up into the heavens where they seemed to come from impossibly far away, going on forever, cascading down on her, masses and masses of them! Resisting the urge to strip off, she would stay outside until her parents called her in. Only then, reluctantly, would she come indoors.
This afternoon, after months of waiting and hoping, it had finally happened. It was mid January and the snow had finally arrived, silent and pure. She had stood resolutely in the back garden this time, letting the snow cover her hair and clothes, and come in only when it suited her. It had been a few years since they had had a decent snowfall, and she had yearned for it all that time. Now she was sixteen years old, although she looked a lot younger. Although she was still under her parents’ jurisdiction, she was allowed a little more freedom, and she took it.
This was why she and Ice were out now, walking in the snow-bright, moonlit evening, to the park where the beautiful snow would be covering everything, and where she could (hopefully) be alone. Through the park gates, and it was as she had hoped and imagined; what she had dreamed about through the long, slow, torturous summer months. There was no-one else in the park; she and Ice were utterly, wonderfully alone. In front of her and all around lay a wide expanse of moonlit whiteness, pristine and glorious. Ready for her.
Ice strained at his lead, his breath coming in excited snorts, so she released him and he took off, bounding through the snow like a puppy, frolicking, barking with sheer happiness, rolling in the snow with an expression of pure doggy joy. She watched him for a few minutes, then checked in all directions. No-one else about. So, she took off her coat, laid it carefully on the snow, then began to take off her other clothes and place them on top of it. Her heart pounding, she peeled off her gloves hat, scarf, then her jumper and blouse, her boots, jeans and socks. She laughed, a childlike sound, as the cold air hit her, and Ice bounded up to her, thrusting his snowy nose against her shin. She lunged for him, but he was off again, a fluffy white snowball of a dog.
Her pale skin was almost as white as the snow itself. She ran after her delighted dog, bare footprints following his paw-prints across the pristine whiteness. She chased him for a long while, her skinny legs lifting high, kicking up the snow in great plumes, then stopping to throw snowballs which he jumped and caught, barking happily. Eventually, when she grew tired, she threw herself to the ground and rolled around, rolled and rolled until the delicious snow covered every inch of her, then lay, Ice sprawled next to her, panting steam into the night air. She gazed up into the night sky as the cold burrowed into her bones, the beautiful cleansing cold, into her very soul, taking away the despicable, painful heat. She lay, absorbing the cold until the horrors of the hot days had been purged, then lay some more. Only when Ice grew restless, jumping up and running round in circles, nudging her with his nose and whining, did she stand up, shake the snow off herself, and slowly put her clothes back on.
Maybe, she reflected, as she and Ice set off once more in the direction of home, maybe she could persuade her parents to get a chest freezer, so she could cram it full of this marvellous snow and lie in it when the agonising heat of June, July and August became too much. Now she must fix this night in her mind, so that she could return in her memory to the snow falling, snow blanketing, the wide white expanse in the moonlit night, and the marvellous feeling of the cold snow on her skin as she rolled in the night in its pure white delight.
What do you think about when you picture a robot? A shining metal man? A factory production line machine? Maybe you picture a remote-controlled cleaning device, a self-driving car, or even a security bot?
These are all traditional, hard robots – inflexible constructions which are limited in their application, partly due to the safety problems they pose to human beings. However, a new field of robotics is emerging which takes these issues into account, offering countless potential applications from medicine and surgery to machine repair. This is soft robotics.
The field of soft robotics concerns the creation of robots constructed of compliant materials and flexible links rather than the familiar rigid-bodied robots made of metals, ceramics and hard plastics. Now, researchers at the Eindhoven University of Technology (TU/e) are exploring the multiple potentialities of soft robotics, including artificial hearts and micro-bots to perform surgery and dispense medicines. The team of researchers is led by Bas Overvelde, associate professor within the Soft Robotics Group (part of the Mechanical Engineering faculty) and scientific group leader of the Soft Robotic Matter Group at AMOLF. In 2020, Overvelde received a five-year ERC start-up grant of more than €1.5 million to increase the application perspective of soft robots. The project brings together researchers from different disciplines and faculties at TU/e, such as Chemical Engineering and Chemistry, Industrial Design and Mechanical Engineering.
“Scientifically, it’s an incubator for new directions and research,” Overvelde said. “It’s a great topic that brings researchers together, which continually generates new ideas. Such an interdisciplinary approach is characteristic of a new science with which we are pioneering in all kinds of areas: materials, mechanical intelligence, interaction with humans, design. Precisely because it requires a very different way of thinking that goes more towards the intelligence of nature. It’s a form of artificial intelligence.”
A key feature of soft robotics compared to hard robotics is its autonomous adaptability. The complex shapes and deformable bodies made possible with soft robots bring their own challenges, as they are less predictable and require new design methods to get them to perform desired functions. Traditional robots have hinge points, hard moving parts and interfaces, which makes them suitable for repetitive actions and programmable sequences.
Jaap Den Toonder, leader of research section Microsystems, explains: “Soft robots respond to stimuli such as air pressure or light. Their movements result from the reaction and deformation of the material, which is where the intelligence lies. That leaves a lot of room for complex possibilities. That’s why a whole chain of research disciplines is needed: to devise and develop the right materials (chemistry), to make the mechanical design and to direct and control the systems (mechanical engineering).”
The softness and flexibility of soft robots makes them ideal for human interaction, as Overvelde points out: “A soft robot will never squeeze your hand. The power of hard robotics makes collaboration between humans and robots more difficult, so soft robotics is a way to make that interaction safer. In the slipstream, that also helps social acceptance, because soft robots are closer to us. What is more likely to be accepted in our bodies; a hard pump or a beating object that resembles a natural heart? Such questions must ultimately be tested.”
Miguel Burns of the Faculty of Industrial Design agrees. He says: “Soft materials fit humans better than hard, mechanical ones. But what makes it especially innovative are the dynamic properties that the use of new materials entails. This makes it possible to manipulate physical properties in a controlled way and adapt them to the needs of the user, such as humans. Although animals, plants or buildings can also be users for that matter. That adaptive nature is the interesting thing about soft robotics.”
Another useful application for soft robotics is in the field of haptics, which concerns perception through the hands. This is the field of researcher Irene Kuling of research section Dynamics and Control. She says: “We are currently using soft robotics in two ways: the development of a hand that imitates human movements as lifelike as possible, and the development of objects with which we can provide haptic feedback to people from a distance. In other words: feeling without being present. Think, for example, of maintenance in a nuclear power plant, giving a hand via video calling, or digitally touching curtains before ordering them online.
“A lot has already happened in that area, such as 3D images, sharper pixels or surround sound, but in terms of sensing, very little exists. Soft robotics is changing that and we are just at the beginning. With traditional robotics we think very much in performance terms, whereas with soft robotics we can be much more creative. Who knows, it might lead to a real life Barbapapa, something that can turn into both light and heavy objects.”
The possible applications of soft robotics are wide-ranging, but naturally limited. However, as researcher Danqing Liu from the Faculty of Chemical Engineering and Chemistry points out, the limitations themselves present even further opportunities: “Since soft robotics lacks the power of hard robotics, we need to turn the differences into an advantage. Such as the combination of moving surfaces with dynamic coatings, which allows us to use vibration to clean hard-to-reach objects without water. For example, solar panels, or think of the Mars Rover, which has to deal with sandstorms. NASA has already encouraged us several times to work out this principle further to meet the extreme conditions in space.
“Also in the field of haptics, with coatings on screens that allow you to feel what is happening in another place. That’s valuable for blind people, or for surgeons to experience what’s happening in the body. Another application is a control panel in cars that allows you to regulate functions without looking, so that you continue to pay attention on the road. Soon we’ll actually be able to do two things at once. If we apply this form of touch sensation feedback on a large scale, it will have a huge impact on the human machine interface. We’re going to change the world.”
One of the questions addressed by researchers is how to bring intelligence to the point where soft robots react autonomously, for example to their environment or to chemical substances. Among other applications, this would enable soft robots to perform surgery and repairs, Den Toonder points out: “Ultimately, we want to make robots on a microscopic scale, smaller than a hair’s breadth, that walk through the body and deliver drugs locally or do surgery. Or that perform repairs in complex machines with very small parts.”
The possible applications don’t stop there. Edible robots could be created which are capable of changing shape to deliver drugs or nutrients at a specific location. Plant-based foods could simulate meat, such as 3D printed algae-based hydrogel ‘bacon’ which reacts like the real thing when cooked.
So what, then, is a robot? Will we one day get to the stage where, as Isaac Asimov says in I, Robot, ‘You just can’t differentiate between a robot and the very best of humans’, or will there always be a clear and discernible difference between robot and human; between the organic and inorganic? One thing is certain: our concept of what a robot is will need to be as flexible as the new generation of robots themselves.
