Roses in December
You know the kind of mornings when the bed is way too cosy, when the thought of getting up and out into the cold isn’t appealing. I usually snuggle down as far as I can. This self made cocoon reminds me of the words of a poet -‘I am not yet born; O hear me.’
I can hear you say but no-one gets up in the cold. We all have centrally heated or under floor heated homes. Sorry I forgot to mention when I was a child believe me things were way different then. And I definitely remember cold mornings. I remember a lot of other things too like the first time I realised the difference between having and not having money.
When I was growing up there was no such thing as rich or poor. Not in our world. I knew there were kings and queens and posh people who lived in castles. I didn’t really know much about them. Like I said they just weren’t in my world.
My parents sent me to a private school which involved paying fees and buying a uniform that included three coats, three hats, several different forms of foot attire , a tie a gymslip and long, dark brown knickers; commonly known as passion killers.
Everyone wore the same clothes so my presumptions that all in my world were the same, continued.
A simple thing known as The Tuck Shop changed my thinking once and for all. The bell would ring and in an orderly fashion we would file out until we reached the spot where we were unseen and then we ran into the playground. Mostly everyone ran towards the Tuck Shop, buying crisps, drinks, chocolate and sweets. I ran in a different direction. I hardly ever had money for sweets.
I used to get small amounts of pocket money and on the days when I had saved three pence I would join the queue and buy one packet of potato puffs. I enjoyed every single one. I knew I wouldn’t be queuing the next day, but for that brief time I was like everyone else.
My upbringing was sheltered to a certain extent. We didn’t have a television and I don’t remember ever hearing news of violence and crimes. Only cowboys in the Saturday matinee had guns. My world was very safe. And in this false sense of security we had a lot of freedom which led me to learning a bit more each day about my world.
Most days after school I called to my grandparents house. Depending on my mood I could take either the leafy lined road with stately 18th century three-storey houses or walk past the church and take the main road. The attractions of the main road were the shops, where my imagination would run riot and give birth to all kinds of dreams. They were mostly car sales but dress shops, and hairdressers, nestled amongst them. I walked on the left and just past a cycle shop was a laneway which led to the street where my grandparents lived.
I could see about five or six young men hanging round the shop. There were staring at me. I looked rather snooty in full uniform. In those days it was a firm requirement to wear your hat, gloves and coat buttoned until you got home.
I could see them smirking at me. I hated gangs but I was even more scared of these guys as they were half-cast. Then it was unusual and a lot of trouble makers were of this kind.
I didn’t look left or right but when I was a little more than halfway down the lane I heard them coming behind me. I flew. I must have run the fastest I had ever run in my life. They were chasing me, and getting closer. I opened the yard door pushing it shut behind me. I opened the back door slid all the bolts across and slid to the floor. I was in the back kitchen. The window was very high up and was long and narrow. I could hear them in the yard. They were banging the door. I could feel my bottom cold on the stone floor. I could hear my heart beating loudly. For the first time in my life I was absolutely terrified.
My terror didn’t last long. For the first time in my ten years I was in love.
As you are already aware I enjoyed a private education. To keep you in the picture it was a convent school run by Rosminian nuns. The headmistress, unlovingly known as Willie Whiskers (think about it) terrified us all.
This changed when she discovered that my friend Mary Lovell and I were good girls.
It was the first day back after Easter and at the end of the morning assembly Willie Whiskers or to give her, her correct title Sister Mary Wilfred, announced she was giving a prize to two very good pupils. Our names were called out and Mary and
I, unaware of our great deed walked warily up onto the stage and stood a comfortable distance from the headmistress.
She announced to the whole school that we had shown a wonderful example by attending mass every day for the six weeks of Lent.
‘Not only did they go to mass everyday’ she said. ‘They went to first mass which meant they had to get up at six.’
We were each given a small holy medal and one small bar of chocolate. The school clapped on cue while Mary and I were ushered off the stage. We were glowing with pride, the owners of much more than a holy medal and a bar of chocolate. It was our secret.
Mary and I at just ten years of age had fallen in love with two brothers, Paddy and Eugene O’Brien, both altar servers at early morning mass.
You could say I was born each time I survived a new experience. A case of bad choice in relationships brought a conflict which resulted in my leaving home. It was a big mistake. This links me to the final memory I am going to share.
Sundays were always special. The whole family would enjoy a long walk together.
The anticipation and excitement grew as we reached the top of the main road. This was the point where we left houses and an occasional car behind. Along a narrow lane we went. The heady smell of the honeysuckle was one thing but the taste of its nectar a secret shared by few.
The lane dissolved into woodland. The sun like spotlights lit the verdurous covering and the sight of millions of bluebells carpeting the woodland floor brought back warmth which the shade had taken. I picked as many as I could hold and carried them on, out into fields and bright sunlight.
Resting a while at the iron gate and banging it with a stick brought horses cantering towards us stopping just in time face to face. Their eyes, like deep jewels watched as I gently stroked their mane. I saw how their ears pricked at the sound of my voice. Their smell warm sweet sweat and their nostrils widened looking for recognition in my smell. A fair exchange, I thought.
A few more miles brought us to the acme of our outing. Morgan’s Tea Gardens; a rather ostentatious appellation for an establishment whose title daubed in white paint on a plank of wood, belied the corrugated iron shed and rickety weather worn tables and benches. But I loved it; journey’s end. Our reward was a bottle of lemonade, a straw and a bag of Smith’s crisps. The race was on to find the tiny blue bag of salt in the packet. I loved the freedom of sitting outside taking in the air the cross wafts of jasmine and honeysuckle while at the same time admiring the texture and different shades of blue in my collection of bluebells.
We didn’t have a car so every Sunday we walked somewhere. This walk was my favourite.
Many years later when the fuss and ado about my broken marriage had died down I returned to my home town. I decided to trace my favourite childhood walk.
Many more cars whizzed past me bringing swirls of dust and exchanging the sweetness of birdsong for the tumult of traffic.
The houses didn’t disappear at the top of the hill. There were more of them, many more.
I kept on walking, then stopped and stood in silence. The woods were gone. The iron man with his bucket and claws had done his job. He ruthlessly made way for new houses while destroying the hidden homes of the badger and the fox. Stones piled high, earth dug deep and dark. No chance to escape.
I kept walking through the drizzle until I saw a cluster of fields. The horses were gone and where once I used to sit enjoying the sunshine and drinking through a straw I could now see only tyres, bits of cars, crusted leather bereft of laces with a tongue flapping, a very large heavy pram, rusted ,sprouting grass unable to balance on only two wheels.
The shed was still there, just about; but the air was dank and the perfume of the jasmine and the honeysuckle just a memory.
I thought of my dear dead friend who always said ‘God gave us a memory, so we could have roses in December.’ We could; and jasmine and honeysuckle also.
I felt I was searching for those happy days. Change and growth comes at a price for everyone and everything.
And now I feel like snuggling back down under the covers into my cocoon and crying out.
‘I am not yet born; console me.’
Acknowledgement to poet Louis Mac Niece
No comments:
Post a Comment