Now
Strange thing, the human mind, how it works, how it leaps, disjointed unrelated thoughts, one after the other, but, you can never actually not be thinking about something can you? It’s not possible to have a brain that’s empty, still, thoughtless. And while these thoughts jump hither and thither, the mind also takes in the surrounding scenery. Fully leafed trees catching the late afternoon sun, primary school children running out, free, to meet their mums and dads, aunts and uncles and even more frequently these days, grandma or grandad.
All this being taken in, but overshadowed by the noise of the rushing stream at the bottom of the garden of the hired holiday cottage, someone’s free range chickens risking an early death through drowning, pecking away millimetres from the swirling water. Brown water easily explained by the soil being carried down from the surrounding hills tipped white through cascading over the rocks, but, what causes the noise?
Google, useless for once, unable to shed any light on the problem, perhaps the old Encyclopaedia Britannica might have helped, but it’s been years since I’ve seen one, let alone the full set which door to door salesmen used to try to sell to you.
And that thought made my mind jump to Rob. Cousin Rob, for in his house, except he didn’t live there, there was a full pristine set, dark blue and gold, frightening to us youngsters – would we ever be clever enough to understand any of it? Even pronouncing the words was difficult enough.
Then
As it turned out, all of us cousins were able to understand, quite a lot of it,well, all that is, except Rob, who, retrospectively probably wasn’t given the chance. Mind you, we weren’t actually allowed to touch them, not Aunt Phoebe’s set – the full 29 volume set as published then, but Grandpa had a few odd volumes knocking around which he didn’t mind us looking at. A self-made man, successful but humble, determined to do the best for his family.
Grandpa lived in a large old house, three storeys and a cellar, big enough – the house, not the cellar – to have all the family sit round a huge solid oak table every Boxing Day to eat tea, a huge trifle being the highlight of the day, with sherry! There must have been thirty of us altogether, us kids sitting on all the old chairs, padded up with cushions, precarious, funny when we fell off, only to be chided by Aunt Phoebe that, ‘children should be seen and not heard.’
Those Boxing day gatherings were tense affairs, fraught might one say, the laughter a bit forced, all straight laced and certainly never the slightest innuendo about you know what, the S word.
Ma and Pa as they were known, the hosts, had both been married before, been widowed and then married in a ceremony I can just remember, not that I actually knew what was going on. As I grew I liked them both, they were kind, always welcoming as ‘popping in’ was easy as we all lived in the same street in those early years, all except Pa’s two eldest children, the redoubtable Aunt P and her slightly younger brother Uncle C, who it became clear as we grew up, couldn’t stand the sight of each other.
Men like Uncle C, a physically intimidating man, were supposed to be the dominant male, but Aunt P was the dominant male and female rolled into one. Besides which, she spoke ‘posh,’ as us kids said, unlike the rest of us with our broad, Black Country accents. Her one redeeming feature to us youngsters, for she frightened the life out of all of us, was that she made the most splendid chocolate cakes. Huge big things, slathered in rich chocolate icing cream.
But, she only made them Rob, when you came home to visit.
xxxxxxx
Being young, I’m talking under ten here, and firmly indoctrinated with the children being seen and not heard bit, I don’t think any of us really noticed how different you were Rob, on the few occasions we saw you. Ok you didn’t look quite like us but you always seemed to have a smile on your face, so not scary different.
We wouldn’t have asked what was the matter with you, for that would undoubtedly have resulted in a wet dishcloth round the legs, my mother being the most expert at that, either that or being banned from the beef dripping and toast teas, or even worse, missing ones turn at having the skin off the weekly rice pudding.
Whilst Uncle C was well built, so was Aunt P but what I remember most, is all the charm bracelets and wrinkly skin. She and Uncle G, her husband, lived in a big detached house in the posh part of town, far removed from the two up and two downs that the rest of us seemed to live in. And, she had a caravan, in Anglesey, would you believe!
No dual carriageway then, just ordinary narrow roads up from through magical sounding places to us, Newport, Whitchurch, Chester, St Asaph, Colwyn Bay and then the dreaded Conwy bridge. Once over, carry on through the old town dominated by that huge castle, then onwards, Penmaenmawr only to become stuck behind a caravan and finally, after seemingly hours of hearing dad cursing quietly, (mother looking sharply at him), Bangor, for a much needed pee, but sometimes it was shut!
More traffic and at last passing under the arches of the Menai Bridge, stopping to gawp at the wreck of HMS Conway, stuck on the rocks her back broken, but still powerful looking in her black and white paint. Over the bridge, bear right inland and finally end up down a narrow lane somewhere unpronounceable and even more difficult to spell. What is with the Welsh and their need for the endless use of consecutive consonants?
We were never invited to stay in Aunt P’s caravan, all state of the art and folding surfaces and uncomfortable beds, as my mother once remarked having stayed overnight, just the once.
The caravan us lot stayed in was on the bottom field, but as far as we were concerned all the better for it, as it was close to the beach and one could sit and watch the storms roll in lashing into the rocks, filling the rocks pools with all sorts of wonderful little creatures.
Being young and in the land of dragons, we would take it in turns to bravely go to the farm for milk and eggs, even you Rob, but you were sent by yourself, Aunt P brooking no interference in your daily routine. To us it seemed rather cruel, but we didn’t dare say anything because she would tell our mother how cheeky we had been and remember, what a dab hand she was with a wet dishcloth, even on holiday.
Now and Then All Mixed Up
So, I’m sitting on the patio a couple of metres above the stream, coffee, ginger biscuits, boxer dog reminding me with big brown eyes that she likes ginger biscuits as well, especially the ones with chocolate on them.
It’s the chickens that bring Rob into my mind.
‘Rob looks after the chickens,’ so Aunt P would tell us endlessly, then adding, ‘at his school in Banbury.’
That always seemed a bit exotic to me as I grew into my teens, ‘his school in Banbury.’ All I knew about the place was that it had a cross and was something to do with a lady on a white horse. As I say, exotic.
Of course the other thing we kids sort of heard, was that Rob was ‘lucky’ to be in such a place. Only later did it begin to occur to us that it much have cost quite a lot of money, but Aunt P and Uncle G lived in a big posh house after all, with a big long garden that backed onto a park, so as they say today, ‘no problem.’
But, that is the problem now Rob. Looking back, with the benefit of maturity, there always seemed to be a slight defensiveness from your mother, Rob, when asked how you were, which we did with the innocence of youth, after all you were our cousin and you coming home meant a chocolate cake.
All in all Rob, retrospectively, it seemed as if there was some sort of conspiracy of silence to hide your disability, whereas today, Downs children and young adults feature in the TV soaps and adverts as part of society, welcomed into their family.
But why hide you away Rob? And this is where I get angry. Were you hidden away because you weren’t perfect? Didn’t fit in with big posh house, the big garden the expensive motor car. Was your mother, as the biggest snob I’ve ever met, ashamed of you dear cousin Rob?
End
Capucin 