It's late afternoon, the end of a summer Sunday and the train is full. We sit quietly, each a little tired, each perhaps thinking about the film we've just seen.
I look out of the window, watching the jumble of office blocks give way to the backs of houses, seeing the concrete yards become gardens that gradually get longer and greener. I wonder about all the people who work in those offices, live in those houses and play in those gardens. I think about the girl from the film. So many different lives; chances taken and missed, opportunities grasped and squandered, promises made, words spoken and regretted.
A woman sits opposite me, leaning against the window. Her arm is loosely draped around the daughter who's half sitting, half lying across her mother's lap . Next to the girl is a young boy, maybe six years old. He sits cross-legged, tidy, taking up hardly any space. I imagine him sitting on the carpet at school, listening closely as his teacher reads a story, trying hard not to miss a word. He's holding a small bag of sweets, slowly licking and nibbling at each one, as though trying to make them last the whole journey home.
Across the aisle are three teenage boys, each wearing the football strip that betrays how they've spent their afternoon. They're talking at each other, across each other. One bites into a burger, another shovels in a fistful of thin chips. The third takes his shoes off, and rests his bare feet on the empty seat opposite. I try not to think about the trace of adolescent sweat they'll leave behind.
"I want Mummy to sit in the middle" says the six-year-old, pulling my attention back to our side of the train carriage. "Then I can have a cuddle."
"You can have a cuddle when we get home" his mum offers. "And I'll read you a story."
She looks across at me and smiles, and I wonder if she realises how lucky she is. I glance again at the football fans, their shirts tell me they support the same team as my sons. I try to remember the last time I sat on a train with my boys, or walked along the street holding a small hand in mine.
And I want to tell her to cuddle him now. I want her to know that all too soon, her tidy little boy will be six foot tall and too embarrassed to hug. I want to urge her not to miss her chances, but I don't. Instead, I look at the boy, who gives me a huge grin, and then I smile right back.
Showing posts with label Gerard. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gerard. Show all posts
Sunday, 1 September 2013
Monday, 14 May 2012
A Penny for them
One of the things about being a mother, and particularly a mother to four children, is that it defines who you are to other people. The moment you confess to parenthood you open yourself up to the judgement of others - from the glowing, usually unwarranted, praise at your ability to conceive, through the well-meaning advice of friends and family, to the looks and comments of those who clearly think that you have no right to be a parent at all.
For a long while, that was just fine. I was just as impressed by my ability to conceive, equally condemning of my failures to get mothering right. And why would I ever want to talk about me, when my children were clearly so much more interesting, intelligent, and downright beautiful than I had any reason to expect.
They still are more interesting, intelligent and beautiful than any other people ever born, but somewhere along the way I realised that I couldn't take the credit for that when I'd never had any real idea how to bring them up. I used to joke that each of them was an experiment and that I still hadn't learned how to do it properly, then I realised it wasn't really a joke. And with that came the recognition that, if I couldn't claim the credit, people's judgement of me had no real basis or reality.
But they carried on assessing my value on the presence of my children.
"I wish I'd achieved something more, something that would leave a mark of my time here on earth"
"Oh, but you've got four interesting, intelligent, beautiful children - you should be proud of that"
And I was. I am. Except...there was a part of me that wanted to be just me.
So it got to the stage, when I met new people, that my kids weren't the first thing I mentioned. I waited until people had formed at least a vague impression of me, before I made a slight, casual, reference to their existence. When I started writing this blog, it was a while before I wrote about any of them; I didn't want to be viewed in that particular way, I didn't want to be labelled a 'mummy blogger'.
And two years ago, when my grandson came along, despite being as pleased as possible, and totally overawed by him and the fact that I have a grandchild, I made only a passing reference to his birth, lost in a longer post about Formula 1 and football.
Then two months ago, my first grand-daughter, Penny-Rose, was born. Since then, I've gradually realised that my views have changed. I find myself wanting to talk about her, and the others, more and more often.
Working full time, I don't get to see her nearly enough, but I saw her this weekend. She is already beautiful and I have no doubt she will turn out to be interesting and intelligent too. So I sat there holding her, singing long-remembered rhymes and talking to her in that high-pitched, over-animated, way. I grinned inanely when she gave me a first real smile, just as I did with her mother so many years ago and as I did so, the years fell away. I was twenty again, excited and petrified that I had a baby to love and care for, knowing nothing about being a mother, but also knowing that it was the best thing I could or would ever do.
I still want to achieve something in my life, I still want to be judged for the mark I leave behind of my time here on earth, I'd love people to think that I'm interesting, intelligent and beautiful. But if that doesn't happen, and there's every chance it won't, then how can I possibly think it's a bad thing for my worth to be assessed for the presence here of my children - Claire, Gerard, Charlie, Megan, my grand-son Eddie and now my new grand-daughter Penny-Rose?
As a grand-mother, I have the chance to experiment all over again, an opportunity to have the slightest influence on the person she'll turn out to be. And who knows? I might even learn something this time.
For a long while, that was just fine. I was just as impressed by my ability to conceive, equally condemning of my failures to get mothering right. And why would I ever want to talk about me, when my children were clearly so much more interesting, intelligent, and downright beautiful than I had any reason to expect.
They still are more interesting, intelligent and beautiful than any other people ever born, but somewhere along the way I realised that I couldn't take the credit for that when I'd never had any real idea how to bring them up. I used to joke that each of them was an experiment and that I still hadn't learned how to do it properly, then I realised it wasn't really a joke. And with that came the recognition that, if I couldn't claim the credit, people's judgement of me had no real basis or reality.
But they carried on assessing my value on the presence of my children.
"I wish I'd achieved something more, something that would leave a mark of my time here on earth"
"Oh, but you've got four interesting, intelligent, beautiful children - you should be proud of that"
And I was. I am. Except...there was a part of me that wanted to be just me.
So it got to the stage, when I met new people, that my kids weren't the first thing I mentioned. I waited until people had formed at least a vague impression of me, before I made a slight, casual, reference to their existence. When I started writing this blog, it was a while before I wrote about any of them; I didn't want to be viewed in that particular way, I didn't want to be labelled a 'mummy blogger'.
And two years ago, when my grandson came along, despite being as pleased as possible, and totally overawed by him and the fact that I have a grandchild, I made only a passing reference to his birth, lost in a longer post about Formula 1 and football.
Then two months ago, my first grand-daughter, Penny-Rose, was born. Since then, I've gradually realised that my views have changed. I find myself wanting to talk about her, and the others, more and more often.
Working full time, I don't get to see her nearly enough, but I saw her this weekend. She is already beautiful and I have no doubt she will turn out to be interesting and intelligent too. So I sat there holding her, singing long-remembered rhymes and talking to her in that high-pitched, over-animated, way. I grinned inanely when she gave me a first real smile, just as I did with her mother so many years ago and as I did so, the years fell away. I was twenty again, excited and petrified that I had a baby to love and care for, knowing nothing about being a mother, but also knowing that it was the best thing I could or would ever do.
I still want to achieve something in my life, I still want to be judged for the mark I leave behind of my time here on earth, I'd love people to think that I'm interesting, intelligent and beautiful. But if that doesn't happen, and there's every chance it won't, then how can I possibly think it's a bad thing for my worth to be assessed for the presence here of my children - Claire, Gerard, Charlie, Megan, my grand-son Eddie and now my new grand-daughter Penny-Rose?
As a grand-mother, I have the chance to experiment all over again, an opportunity to have the slightest influence on the person she'll turn out to be. And who knows? I might even learn something this time.
Thursday, 24 November 2011
Soundtrack stories - Trouble
And suddenly I'm back in the house in Bickley.
It was always a strange house; an old lodge that had once marked the entrance to a much grander building. A bungalow, built in the shape of a cross; it had a series of rooms leading off each other, each of them tiny, and each of them impossible to keep warm.
In my memory, I'm always sitting at the table in the dining room, looking out on the ivy-covered wall that separates the house from a busy road. The table is covered in a red and white checked cloth that doesn't quite match the raspberry-painted walls. The ironing board stands in one corner because there's nowhere else to keep it, and just behind where I sit is the bookcase with its shelves of books arranged by the colour of their spines.
And all the children still live with me.
Claire and Megan are in their bedroom, tucked behind one of the doors leading from the lounge. The eight year gap in their ages brings a strange mix of cuddly toys and sparkly make-up to the mess that surrounds them. Charlie is sprawled on the sofa watching tv. In one corner of the lounge there's a huge open fireplace, piled up with the pine cones we've collected from the garden. In the opposite corner there's a small wooden staircase that leads to the boys' attic bedroom, and up there sits Ged playing on his Yamaha keyboard.
As I sit at the table, gazing out of the window, I don't notice the sound of the traffic outside, or the shouts from the tv in the next room, because all I can hear, flowing down that small wooden staircase, are those three notes.
Back then, I didn't know what the song was called, but I looked it up on Google recently and read the lyrics. And now, as I sit at the dining table in another house and time, I'd really love for the girls to be here squabbling over make-up, for Charlie to be glued to Match of the Day, and for Ged to be somewhere upstairs playing those first three notes, so that I could sing back to him, in the words of the song.
Oh I never meant to cause you trouble; Oh I never meant to do you wrong.
Sunday, 22 May 2011
Memories and mementoes
I unlock the small square door and reach up to pull down the aluminium ladder. Above me, in the dark, dusty, cob-webbed space is the task I've been dreading most since we started packing up the house to move.
I'm not scared of spiders and I don't mind a bit of dirt, but nevertheless, the task of clearing the loft fills me with trepidation. Though there's no picture of Dorian Gray hiding up there, I know that, stacked up in a corner and hidden behind the suitcases and bags of old clothes, are the boxes that represent another life. They've sat there unopened since we moved to this house. Treasured keepsakes, each with a meaning of its own, each telling a story about a different me, as daughter, wife or mother; these are the possessions that sum up my life before Philip; the stories of my family.
It should be a simple task to lift these boxes down and pile them up with all the other boxes for the removal men to transfer to our new house in just over a week's time. And it would be, if I could resist the temptation to open them and sift through the contents.
The first box holds medals and trophies from when the boys played football for the cub-scouts and school teams. The trophies are wrapped snuggly in the shiny fabrics of a dozen replica football shirts. I remember the freezing hours I spent, standing on the touchline, shouting and willing my lads to run and score and win, until they were too old and too embarrassed to want me watching them any more.
Next is a container of all the kitchen things I bought for Megan when she first went away to university. The saucepans and colander for all the beans and pasta I thought she'd be eating; the tea caddy for her unquenchable thirst for a nice cup of tea. She only stayed in Leeds for one term, hating every minute of her time there. I remember driving up to collect her and bringing her home; the box has been in the loft ever since.
There's another one from Charlie's slightly longer, but no more successful, time at Manchester University. It holds his study materials; a collection of pens and papers, a calculator and his student ID card; all evidence of the good intent to study that he took with him, but which evaporated as quickly as his student loan. I'm suddenly hit by the recognition of how lost he must have felt, away from home for the first time, his money all gone and a slowly growing panic as he fell behind in his studies. At the bottom of the box I'm surprised to find a fountain pen. It's mine, and I'd assumed it was long-since lost. I've no idea how it came to be in the box; I'd like to think he chose to take it up to Manchester with him.
Next comes the photo box. I lost hundreds of pictures after a move 4 houses ago when I stupidly left the albums to go mouldy in an outside shed. The pictures in this box are the only ones I managed to save. Rare and precious representations of my children as babies and toddlers, birthdays, weddings and school photos. I'm surprised to see a younger, slimmer me, secretly pleased at how I used to look.
There's a huge box of paper souvenirs; school report letters; theatre programmes and tickets; newspaper cuttings; handmade birthday cards. Among them a letter from Charlie, telling me he's sorry for fighting with his brother, that he didn't mean to upset me, that he loves me lots. Beside that, a small envelope holding 4 notes from Claire, written to Charlie and me just after he was born.
The last box I look through is the one I know will make me cry. It holds everything I still have of my Dad, bank statements and insurance papers; his final will and testament; details of the arrangements I made for his funeral and the condolence cards we received. I know what's in this box, but I haven't looked through it for four years, so the contents come back to me with a shock. I smile when I find the tickets issued over fifty years ago for a trip to Spain for him and my Mum; I swallow hard when I find the picture of him as a young man in the army, confident and smiling, knowing there is still a whole lifetime ahead. I'm struck by the resemblance between him and Charlie.
And then I find the small envelope. Inside it is a typewritten sheet, a story written many years ago by my Dad, for Charlie on his birthday. As I read the story I begin to hear his voice. And then I realise that even though I'll be moving to a new house soon; a house he'll never visit or know; my Dad will be coming along on the journey anyway.
----------------
The Day We Won the Cup - written for 'His Majesty Emperor King Charlie':
Once upon a time, on a sunny summer aftermorning, all the people on earth were very happy. They were dressed in their best clothes, with pink ribbons hanging from their toenails and green ice-cream cornets dropping from their noses. They started the day with a special breakfast, starting with scrambled crocodile's eggs,which were followed by Marmitemud on toast.
The reason for all this happiness was that this was the day of the long-awaited final of the Inter-World Cup between the men from the planet Klobbadog and a special team from the planet Earth. The men from Klobbadog were known as excellent footballers, who had won every game that they had played. This may, of course, have been because they each had three legs worked by batteries, and large square heads mounted on rubber stalks, which made it easy to head lots of goals.
The team from Earth that had been chosen to play against Klobbadog were known as the Longshortworth Rovers who, although consisting on only six players, were famous for the special skills each of them possessed, Up front was the Daddyman, whose special skill was running down the pitch tripping everybody up with a golf-club. Joining him up front was the Mummywoman, whose special skill lay in feeding players on the other side with homemade cakes which poisoned them within minutes. In midfield were the Clairegirl, who wasn't really very good at football, but used to wave her feet at anybody that came near her so that they collapsed on the spot. Alongside her was the Gerardboy, who had a special ability to turn himself into a bear-cub, and at the back was the cuddly Meggygirl who used to talk and talk and talk until she sent everybody to sleep.
But the star player of the Earth team was the goalkeeper, Charlieboy Longworth, who had never given away a single goal, because of his ability to make his arms and legs stretch to ginormous lengths by saying the magic words:
The game was nearly over when disaster struck! One of the Klobbadog players tripped over the Daddyman's golf clubs and was awarded a penalty. He shot the ball hard with two legs, straight at the goal, but the Charlieboy caught the ball with one of his magical long arms, ran straight up the pitch and scored another goal. The Earth people had won! Charlieboy was the hero of the hour! He was given special toys made of ice-cream and toffee that he could eat when he was fed up of playing with them, and they all lived happily ever after!!!!!
I'm not scared of spiders and I don't mind a bit of dirt, but nevertheless, the task of clearing the loft fills me with trepidation. Though there's no picture of Dorian Gray hiding up there, I know that, stacked up in a corner and hidden behind the suitcases and bags of old clothes, are the boxes that represent another life. They've sat there unopened since we moved to this house. Treasured keepsakes, each with a meaning of its own, each telling a story about a different me, as daughter, wife or mother; these are the possessions that sum up my life before Philip; the stories of my family.
It should be a simple task to lift these boxes down and pile them up with all the other boxes for the removal men to transfer to our new house in just over a week's time. And it would be, if I could resist the temptation to open them and sift through the contents.
The first box holds medals and trophies from when the boys played football for the cub-scouts and school teams. The trophies are wrapped snuggly in the shiny fabrics of a dozen replica football shirts. I remember the freezing hours I spent, standing on the touchline, shouting and willing my lads to run and score and win, until they were too old and too embarrassed to want me watching them any more.
Next is a container of all the kitchen things I bought for Megan when she first went away to university. The saucepans and colander for all the beans and pasta I thought she'd be eating; the tea caddy for her unquenchable thirst for a nice cup of tea. She only stayed in Leeds for one term, hating every minute of her time there. I remember driving up to collect her and bringing her home; the box has been in the loft ever since.
There's another one from Charlie's slightly longer, but no more successful, time at Manchester University. It holds his study materials; a collection of pens and papers, a calculator and his student ID card; all evidence of the good intent to study that he took with him, but which evaporated as quickly as his student loan. I'm suddenly hit by the recognition of how lost he must have felt, away from home for the first time, his money all gone and a slowly growing panic as he fell behind in his studies. At the bottom of the box I'm surprised to find a fountain pen. It's mine, and I'd assumed it was long-since lost. I've no idea how it came to be in the box; I'd like to think he chose to take it up to Manchester with him.
Next comes the photo box. I lost hundreds of pictures after a move 4 houses ago when I stupidly left the albums to go mouldy in an outside shed. The pictures in this box are the only ones I managed to save. Rare and precious representations of my children as babies and toddlers, birthdays, weddings and school photos. I'm surprised to see a younger, slimmer me, secretly pleased at how I used to look.
There's a huge box of paper souvenirs; school report letters; theatre programmes and tickets; newspaper cuttings; handmade birthday cards. Among them a letter from Charlie, telling me he's sorry for fighting with his brother, that he didn't mean to upset me, that he loves me lots. Beside that, a small envelope holding 4 notes from Claire, written to Charlie and me just after he was born.
The last box I look through is the one I know will make me cry. It holds everything I still have of my Dad, bank statements and insurance papers; his final will and testament; details of the arrangements I made for his funeral and the condolence cards we received. I know what's in this box, but I haven't looked through it for four years, so the contents come back to me with a shock. I smile when I find the tickets issued over fifty years ago for a trip to Spain for him and my Mum; I swallow hard when I find the picture of him as a young man in the army, confident and smiling, knowing there is still a whole lifetime ahead. I'm struck by the resemblance between him and Charlie.
And then I find the small envelope. Inside it is a typewritten sheet, a story written many years ago by my Dad, for Charlie on his birthday. As I read the story I begin to hear his voice. And then I realise that even though I'll be moving to a new house soon; a house he'll never visit or know; my Dad will be coming along on the journey anyway.
----------------
The Day We Won the Cup - written for 'His Majesty Emperor King Charlie':
Once upon a time, on a sunny summer aftermorning, all the people on earth were very happy. They were dressed in their best clothes, with pink ribbons hanging from their toenails and green ice-cream cornets dropping from their noses. They started the day with a special breakfast, starting with scrambled crocodile's eggs,which were followed by Marmitemud on toast.
The reason for all this happiness was that this was the day of the long-awaited final of the Inter-World Cup between the men from the planet Klobbadog and a special team from the planet Earth. The men from Klobbadog were known as excellent footballers, who had won every game that they had played. This may, of course, have been because they each had three legs worked by batteries, and large square heads mounted on rubber stalks, which made it easy to head lots of goals.
The team from Earth that had been chosen to play against Klobbadog were known as the Longshortworth Rovers who, although consisting on only six players, were famous for the special skills each of them possessed, Up front was the Daddyman, whose special skill was running down the pitch tripping everybody up with a golf-club. Joining him up front was the Mummywoman, whose special skill lay in feeding players on the other side with homemade cakes which poisoned them within minutes. In midfield were the Clairegirl, who wasn't really very good at football, but used to wave her feet at anybody that came near her so that they collapsed on the spot. Alongside her was the Gerardboy, who had a special ability to turn himself into a bear-cub, and at the back was the cuddly Meggygirl who used to talk and talk and talk until she sent everybody to sleep.
But the star player of the Earth team was the goalkeeper, Charlieboy Longworth, who had never given away a single goal, because of his ability to make his arms and legs stretch to ginormous lengths by saying the magic words:
"Abracadabra Hazel and Mush, my teacher looks like a scrubbing brush."The Earth team were soon two goals ahead, First the Mummy girl ran up the pitch, turning sideways so that she was so thin nobody saw her. Then the Gerardboy ran forward giving a loud bear-cub growl and frightening all the Klobbadog players and banging the ball in the net.
The game was nearly over when disaster struck! One of the Klobbadog players tripped over the Daddyman's golf clubs and was awarded a penalty. He shot the ball hard with two legs, straight at the goal, but the Charlieboy caught the ball with one of his magical long arms, ran straight up the pitch and scored another goal. The Earth people had won! Charlieboy was the hero of the hour! He was given special toys made of ice-cream and toffee that he could eat when he was fed up of playing with them, and they all lived happily ever after!!!!!
Thursday, 28 April 2011
Parallel lives
21st June 1982, London, England.
Two maternity wards, two young women; each of them putting aside the pain and exhaustion of the preceding hours as they reach out to hold a new-born child.
Two boys.
------------
Families and friends, school and work-mates, loosely connected by-standers, all influenced them as they grew, shaping their actions and recording their histories in photographs and memory.
Each boy was a first born son, growing up with the hope and expectation that brings, knowing that one day, in a different century, they would be expected to learn the family trade, take it on, build and nurture it to support another family.
Each of them thrived in the early years, spontaneously talkative and affectionate, confident in their parents' love.
Each struggled to make sense of the bitterness and struggle of the separation and divorce that came later.
Somewhere along the way, each defined a role for himself as guardian and protector, the man of the family; taking care of his mother whatever his disappointment in her; accepting the role of elder sibling, whatever the annoyances and embarrassments of a younger brother who was more than reasonably prone to seeking out trouble.
Both grew up tall and handsome.
--------------
Tomorrow, one will stand in Westminster Abbey, with the eyes of the world on him, as he pledges his love to the future queen of England.
I will be among the millions watching that boy on TV, but my hopes and my love will be with the other one. The boy relaxing with his friends over a pint or several, somewhere in south London. The one that the world will never know, but the one who makes me as proud as any mother of a king.
My son Gerard.
Two maternity wards, two young women; each of them putting aside the pain and exhaustion of the preceding hours as they reach out to hold a new-born child.
Two boys.
------------
Families and friends, school and work-mates, loosely connected by-standers, all influenced them as they grew, shaping their actions and recording their histories in photographs and memory.
Each boy was a first born son, growing up with the hope and expectation that brings, knowing that one day, in a different century, they would be expected to learn the family trade, take it on, build and nurture it to support another family.
Each of them thrived in the early years, spontaneously talkative and affectionate, confident in their parents' love.
Each struggled to make sense of the bitterness and struggle of the separation and divorce that came later.
Somewhere along the way, each defined a role for himself as guardian and protector, the man of the family; taking care of his mother whatever his disappointment in her; accepting the role of elder sibling, whatever the annoyances and embarrassments of a younger brother who was more than reasonably prone to seeking out trouble.
Both grew up tall and handsome.
--------------
Tomorrow, one will stand in Westminster Abbey, with the eyes of the world on him, as he pledges his love to the future queen of England.
I will be among the millions watching that boy on TV, but my hopes and my love will be with the other one. The boy relaxing with his friends over a pint or several, somewhere in south London. The one that the world will never know, but the one who makes me as proud as any mother of a king.
My son Gerard.
Thursday, 7 April 2011
A walk in the park
As I walk along the path by the river I hear footsteps; a heavy pounding beat on the tarmac behind me, quickly coming closer and closer. I don't know if I should be afraid. I'm not usually here at this hour, I don't yet have an understanding of the patterns and habits of this part of town.
As he passes me, I can't help but smile. From the shins up he's just a boy, a skinny lad who got tall too quickly. In his grey tracksuit trousers, sweatshirt and baseball cap, with a sportsbag slung over one shoulder, he could be on his way to school. It's only the boots that suggest something different, their heavy reinforced toe-caps, beating out the rhythm of a working man.
Most days, I travel to work by car, from the lovely street where we live, to the multi-storey car park next to my office. When I was young I was intrigued by the idea of a transporter - the sort you'd see on Star Trek, where you'd step into a capsule and almost instantly end up in a different place on another planet. Now I'm all grown-up, I realise that my journey to work has become a bit like that, although admittedly not as instant.Once I enter the car, it's like I'm in my own bubble. My only interaction with anyone else is vicariously through the airwaves of the radio, or in mimed action through the exchanges with other drivers who surprise, irritate or enrage me. The only engagement with my surroundings is when I wipe a finger across the dusty dashboard, or scrabble about in the detritus I keep in the door-pocket, for a tissue, a tube of hand cream or the one CD I want to listen to most, though I can't remember where I put it.
A week or so ago, crumbling concrete brought a change to my routine, as the multi-storey was declared unsafe for use and we were all forced to make alternative arrangements. For the last week my journey has included a ten-minute walk to the office. The route takes me along a footpath, past the back of the cricket ground into the park, then along by the river, until I emerge from the underpass, just a few yards from my building.
I'm surprised how many people are around; dark-suited office workers march determinedly onwards, heads down as though they daren't risk the slightest distraction. Kids race past on scooters; while their mums try to keep up, propelling baby-buggies forward like miniature chariots. I feel sorry for the babies, pulled from the cosy comfort of their beds, breakfast hurriedly spooned into their still-yawning mouths, arms thrust into the un-cooperative sleeves of tiny coats, in a daily rush to the child-minder.
I pass the children's playground. There's a new climbing frame, resplendent in shades of purple, jade and yellow. Its colours make the old, faded-blue swings look shabby and unloved. I slow down for a while, imagining how my sons would have loved the frame; the chance to hurtle up ladders, fly across bridges and fling themselves down the slides and poles. I think of the times I stood by the side, pleased by their fearless adventures, terrified of impending injury.
I remember the holiday in Devon, when Gerard decided to climb the cliff. One minute he'd been sat by my side, playing in the sand; the next he was halfway up a precipice. The lure of reaching the top had obliterated any consideration of how he'd get down again. I shudder, even now, at the memory of the blind panic that gripped me as I imagined him plunging down into the sea. I know I stood there paralysed with fear, unable to think or move, while he loved every moment of the scramble up and relished every minute of the attention he got from the group of men who so generously climbed up to escort him back down.
But the playground is deserted; everyone is too busy heading somewhere else. There's no time to stop and play, no chance of screaming falls; or even grazed knees and bumped heads at this hour.
I carry on along the path. The walk is still a novelty, so I look around, noticing the clumps of sunny daffodils and the emerald green nettles building their traps by the side of the river. I hear the birds singing from their vantage points high above me. I look up.
The trees are in full blossom. Their flowers seem bolder and whiter than they ought to be, somehow they remind me of the winter snow that's not long gone. I'm glad that the fall of their flake-like petals will bring warmth and sunshine rather than shivery cold. And it's the thoughts of warmth and sunshine, the promise of future holidays that stays with me as I walk through the graffiti-ed underpass, past the locked empty car park and into my office.
As he passes me, I can't help but smile. From the shins up he's just a boy, a skinny lad who got tall too quickly. In his grey tracksuit trousers, sweatshirt and baseball cap, with a sportsbag slung over one shoulder, he could be on his way to school. It's only the boots that suggest something different, their heavy reinforced toe-caps, beating out the rhythm of a working man.
Most days, I travel to work by car, from the lovely street where we live, to the multi-storey car park next to my office. When I was young I was intrigued by the idea of a transporter - the sort you'd see on Star Trek, where you'd step into a capsule and almost instantly end up in a different place on another planet. Now I'm all grown-up, I realise that my journey to work has become a bit like that, although admittedly not as instant.Once I enter the car, it's like I'm in my own bubble. My only interaction with anyone else is vicariously through the airwaves of the radio, or in mimed action through the exchanges with other drivers who surprise, irritate or enrage me. The only engagement with my surroundings is when I wipe a finger across the dusty dashboard, or scrabble about in the detritus I keep in the door-pocket, for a tissue, a tube of hand cream or the one CD I want to listen to most, though I can't remember where I put it.
A week or so ago, crumbling concrete brought a change to my routine, as the multi-storey was declared unsafe for use and we were all forced to make alternative arrangements. For the last week my journey has included a ten-minute walk to the office. The route takes me along a footpath, past the back of the cricket ground into the park, then along by the river, until I emerge from the underpass, just a few yards from my building.
I'm surprised how many people are around; dark-suited office workers march determinedly onwards, heads down as though they daren't risk the slightest distraction. Kids race past on scooters; while their mums try to keep up, propelling baby-buggies forward like miniature chariots. I feel sorry for the babies, pulled from the cosy comfort of their beds, breakfast hurriedly spooned into their still-yawning mouths, arms thrust into the un-cooperative sleeves of tiny coats, in a daily rush to the child-minder.
I pass the children's playground. There's a new climbing frame, resplendent in shades of purple, jade and yellow. Its colours make the old, faded-blue swings look shabby and unloved. I slow down for a while, imagining how my sons would have loved the frame; the chance to hurtle up ladders, fly across bridges and fling themselves down the slides and poles. I think of the times I stood by the side, pleased by their fearless adventures, terrified of impending injury.
I remember the holiday in Devon, when Gerard decided to climb the cliff. One minute he'd been sat by my side, playing in the sand; the next he was halfway up a precipice. The lure of reaching the top had obliterated any consideration of how he'd get down again. I shudder, even now, at the memory of the blind panic that gripped me as I imagined him plunging down into the sea. I know I stood there paralysed with fear, unable to think or move, while he loved every moment of the scramble up and relished every minute of the attention he got from the group of men who so generously climbed up to escort him back down.
But the playground is deserted; everyone is too busy heading somewhere else. There's no time to stop and play, no chance of screaming falls; or even grazed knees and bumped heads at this hour.
I carry on along the path. The walk is still a novelty, so I look around, noticing the clumps of sunny daffodils and the emerald green nettles building their traps by the side of the river. I hear the birds singing from their vantage points high above me. I look up.
The trees are in full blossom. Their flowers seem bolder and whiter than they ought to be, somehow they remind me of the winter snow that's not long gone. I'm glad that the fall of their flake-like petals will bring warmth and sunshine rather than shivery cold. And it's the thoughts of warmth and sunshine, the promise of future holidays that stays with me as I walk through the graffiti-ed underpass, past the locked empty car park and into my office.
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