The ‘First Wife’ of an Important Man
Sandra Kemp at her wedding in 1963.
A 2002 obituary by Robbie McKie begins “Arnold Kemp, who has died suddenly at the age of 63, was probably the most outstanding Scottish journalist of the second half of the 20th century.” Later, after a glowing account of Kemp’s achievements, McKie continues: “(His 1963 marriage to Sandra Shand, which produced two daughters, broke up soon after his move to Glasgow.)”
The first sentence quoted here is perhaps a moot point, but Mr. Kemp certainly sounds important. To you, the latter comment on his married life might read as a well-summarised but fluent description of the man’s romantic fortune. To me, it is a tragic obfuscation of my grandmother.
Arnold Kemp in The Observer after a collection of his writing was published in 2012.
When McKie describes the challenges that Arnold (my grandfather) overcame before his marriage ended, Sandra isn’t mentioned. He later describes Arnold’s second wife as being there though “all his triumphs and tribulations”. Suffice to say, the women in this account of Arnold’s life are mostly reduced to inaccurate footnotes; there to facilitate his greatness and produce offspring.
I should clarify: I by no means intend to disparage Robbie McKie – he is a distinguished journalist. Rather, I’m trying to draw attention to the status quo. A status quo in which it is normal that almost no attention be paid to the first wife of an important man.
So, what are we to do about a society that consistently foregrounds its VIP patriarchs; a society which usually deems men, not women, of biographical interest? Are we to conclude that these men are, in fact, more important people? Should we assume that we learn more by reading about their experiences? What of the experiences and contributions of Sandra Kemp?
Sandra and Arnold with their children in 1966.
I propose that, as an exercise in reframing the narrative, we take an interest in her story. Think of it as turning the beam of biographical attention sideways, disregarding the currency of professional attainment, and instead reflecting on the depth and complexity of her life: for its own sake.
A Short Biography of Sandra Kemp
On the 4th of April 1939, an Aberdonian doctor was in the midst of a stressful delivery. The birth was three weeks premature, and the newborn’s mother had been through several miscarriages. He wrapped the baby in cotton wool, and set her in front of an electric fire. She stayed there for three months.
“I was a podgy wee thing,” says Sandra, now in her eighties, “and after all that, a very healthy child.”
Sandra in her godmother’s arms, 1939.
Unfortunately, growing up in the early 1940s, things didn’t stay quiet for long.
“There were always the sirens,” Sandra says. Some of her first memories were of running to the two concrete bunkers at the end of her street; the windows of their house were blown out three times.
At least, in the face of such anxiety and devastation, the spirit of the war effort connected everyone in her neighbourhood. “It was all women, of course: the men were off fighting – except the smiddy at the end of the street.”
Although these women were very careful, the ethic of humility didn’t appear to wash off on young Sandra. “Oh I was very outgoing, and my mother was stern, so I’d regularly get a skelp oan ma bum for behaving badly.”
A portrait of young Sandra; sent to her father in 1942.
Like many other children on her street, Sandra had never knowingly met her own father, Alec. He was a P.O.W. and had been in German occupation for several years – a longer time frame than most could have survived. A chef, and a hardy soul, he had been smart, patient, and relied on his culinary training to avoid diseased water and food.
“I had only seen pictures of this handsome young man around my house. I was so excited for him to come home. I told everyone.” Sadly, the dishevelled skeleton that she met in the train station horrified her, as a little girl. They took a taxi from the station home, and when Alec saw the welcome party waiting at their door, he said two words: “Keep driving.”
Sandra with proud parents in 1950.
At 14 the Red Cross came to her school, and something clicked: “From that day on, I knew I would be a nurse.”
By the time she made it to pre-nursing college, her social life was getting very exciting. Saturdays were for dances at the local school hall, and Sundays had live music at The Beach Ballroom. Most winter Sunday mornings included ice skating on her way to the kirk. “I’d pop a long coat over my wee skating skirt. Mum was horrified.”
Sandra “jiving” in the late 1950s.
At 18 she was working full time in the local hospital. Although the realities of real-world nursing began to consume more of her time, there were still lots of opportunities for fun. This finally slowed when, at 21, she moved to Glasgow to join the famous Rottenrow Hospital to become a midwife, leaving her friends and family in Aberdeen.
While in Glasgow she was based in Drumchapel, a famously deprived neighbourhood. During one home delivery, a slightly intimidating man locked the door on the midwives after they entered. “Ye’ll no be leaving here ‘til the baby’s oot!” he said.
Sandra’s formal nurse’s portrait in the early ‘60s.
Although she loved working as a midwife, the job was not easy. “I had been charged with looking after this wee soul, only a few weeks old. Every night, I helped him sleep. One day I came in, couldn’t find him in his bed, and my heart sank. He was dead.”
“How did you cope?” I ask. “Cope? The sister came doon and whisked me off to another job. People’s lives were at stake!” The constant movement of duty at work created a sense of urgency that gave her little time to dwell, but also had a big effect on her personality. Forever after, extreme stress has felt normal to her.
Sandra with her fellow nurses, whom she adored. 1960.
Before long she felt she needed a change, and found work in London that suited her: Bart’s Hospital. “One of the best decisions I ever made was living in the nurses’ quarters… So much fun.”
“What made it so fun?” I ask. “I was such a social butterfly. We were always in each other's rooms, and going dancing on Saturdays. We even had a special visitors room for… male guests.” I pry no further.
Photo-booth slots of the young couple, early ‘60s.
This was around the time Sandra met Arnold, a handsome young journalist. She frequented a bar named Down Under with her Australian friend, and Arnold would visit with a New Zealander: thus, the two Scots met in London and fell in love.
Sandra gave birth to her first daughter in a London dormitory town and embarked on the life of a 60s housewife: the kind of life that prompted the first feminist writings. In the era of her childhood, women lived together in a community – now they were atomised, isolated, staring at four walls.
Formal portrait of the Kemps with their two children. 1966.
Soon Arnold was transferred back to Edinburgh. In Scotland, Sandra was closer to her parents and found a sociable street where she made friends. Excited, she retrained as a Health Visitor, and started a fulfilling professional life caring for young families around the city.
Suddenly Arnold was promoted to London editor of the Scotsman, and the family were back in London. It was again difficult for Sandra, left in the home out in a dull suburb, unable to work. Weekend trips to west end theatres became a source of light in her life.
Sandra and Arnold with their daughter at a family party in the ‘60s.
Rebounding back to Edinburgh, Arnold became deputy editor of the Scotsman. Their home became a vibrant centre of political discussion; Sandra was a fantastic cook and could throw together an amazing dinner party, often spontaneously.
By this time, she was doing a double shift, working full time, running a home, caring for her two teenagers, and supporting her husband’s career. An impressive feat by any standard. Somehow, she still filled those evenings with lively debate and chatter.
As their lives transformed, throughout the next decade Sandra’s two daughters grew into young adults and began navigating ever-more independent and complex lives. They became involved in political movements or music scenes, and were deeply entangled in social connections throughout Edinburgh.
Sandra with her girls in the early 80’s.
Things shifted again when Arnold secured the job of his life: the editorship of the Glasgow Herald. For Arnold, now 42, it was a chance to reinvent himself. For Sandra and their children, it was a dramatic gear shift that represented another uprooting.
Sandra was determined to be there for him, and he was keen to make a success of his new job. He was at the paper almost constantly, and started having feelings for one of his colleagues. Before that relationship could go any further, he decided to end his marriage with Sandra.
Sandra visiting the Hebridean Island of Mull after her Divorce. 1980s.
Sandra was devastated – she had never expected her life to go this way. Divorce then was comparatively rare in Scotland, and had very few confidantes to speak to. Society had no time for her - a newly divorced woman who had lost her VIP man was no longer welcome to the same dinner parties.
She moved back to Edinburgh, and set about the long process of building a new life. It was hard at first, but she went back to work, made new friends, and built stronger female relationships. She dated a little, but decided to live independently, going on to travel the world on her own – a rare feat for a woman of the time.
This global trip was the journey of a lifetime for Sandra, and created many of her most treasured memories.
Sandra in the early 2000s driving her friend Shona’s tracktor.
A few years later, she became a grandmother, taking to this role with incredible dedication. She moved into the house of her young grandchildren, and played a central role in their lives. Later, as those children grew up, she moved to a beautiful house of her own.
In her old age, she is wonderfully cared for by her youngest daughter, and still regularly sees her family and friends.
All the while, she has remained dedicated to her grandchildren. She gives love, time, energy, help, patience and a good deal of the Scottish sternness she learnt from her mother. I should know, after all, I am lucky enough to call her Grandma.
Sandra in 2001, surrounded by her young grandchildren (from left) Mary, Walter and William.
By Walter Kemp Bruce
