Saving the Daisies. (8)

DillyTante's profile

DillyTante
Posted by DillyTante on Thu 21 Sep 06, 10:55 AM

I was around four years old, when I was introduced to Barry McGregor and he a year or so, older.

Barry and I took one look at each other and instantly liked what we saw. One playtime later, we were two sides of the same coin. Squabbles were frequent, fleet and resolved immediately, without rancour. We talked constantly, about heaven knows what and understood each other perfectly, at all times.

Our mothers were neighbours in a block of flats in New Southgate, London. They pointed us at each other one day, hoping we would play amicably together. In turn, they drank coffee, gossiped - and smoked cheroots and Players Senior Service respectively.

It was London in the early sixties, just before London began to swing. Someone repeatedly sang the question, 'Would You Like to Swing on a Star?' My heartfelt answer was absolutely, yes I would. Further musical backdrops offered the Beatles, Lulu and The Supremes.

She Loves You. Shout! Baby Love.

Huge people, everywhere. All invested with ultimate authority. Giant women nearly always in heels, skirts and stockings; giant men, with the exception of my grandfather, nearly always absent. It was a huge and tiny world – but as for any microbe in a drop of pond water, it was entire and complete. For me.

Our territory was the grounds of our shared apartment block. I recall endless acres of green lawns and of course, the sun always shone. Well. Apart from one winter, where snowdrifts blew six foot high, froze solid and lasted until Easter; imprinting me with a lifelong desire, that all winters should be that snowy.

Mothers ruled the world. All of them. Vague and various other mothers would issue unfathomable, but unquestionable edicts, which all the kids obeyed. Sometimes, we socialised in maternally marshalled deployments. Left to our own devices though, Barry and I functioned as a team. A singular and singularly complete, unit.

Entirely in tune, we shared similar wariness of Paul at Number 6, who with his mother's blessing, entertained reluctant guests, from his bathroom. In the bath. Wearing swimming trunks. Barry and I found Paul (and his bath and swimming trunks) peculiar and a bit dubious. More so, when Paul's mother suggested that we might join Paul in his bath. A repeated invitation, which was always nervously, but politely declined.

We played Cowboys and Indians. I was always the Indian. Inevitably, I came to question my limited role. Barry explained that I was much better at being an Indian than he. Besides, I died better. He further explained that he was also a far superior cowboy than I could ever be. I can't remember the reasons now, but they were bloody good; his logic inescapable. Anyway, I enjoyed the game, so apart from an occasional grumble, I remained routinely pursued, sometimes tied up, but always slaughtered.

One day, Barry acquired a cap gun. He wanted to shoot me. I really didn't fancy the idea. His powerful pleas however, persuaded me to stand at one end of his kitchen while he took aim at me, from the other. Acknowledging my terror, he assured me sympathetically but firmly, that it wouldn't hurt. I bolted twice, but eventually stood in position, with quaking legs and pounding heart, as he shot me. Satisfied eventually, Barry allowed the furiously afraid and wobbly-legged little Dilly, to remove herself from the target area.

This relationship was by no means one way. Barry looked after me. He forgave me everything. Even when I released, a butterfly he'd spent forever catching and had then stashed carefully, in a matchbox. I'd never seen a butterfly up close. I begged him to let me hold it. With reservation, Barry agreed, warning me that I must not let it go, under any circumstances.

I did of course. Well! Who was to know, that butterflies were such repulsive, scary little monsters with pretty wings? I didn't. I thought they would look like fairies. What a horrible swizz! No sooner had the revolting head and feelers poked through my fingers, but my hands sprung apart. After a short, exasperated lecture, Barry wrote off the incident. He accepted my apology and off we went to investigate a mysterious egg thing, I'd discovered the day before.

One bright summer's morning, we sat on wrought iron steps outside the flats, nattering and idly surveying our kingdom. Vast lawns buried under snowfalls of daisies, were stretching as far as eyes could see. I loved them. I was in the middle of saying just how much I loved them, when suddenly The Lawnmower Man appeared.

His arrival signified imminent daisy-slaughter. In panic, I suggested we try to save as many as we could. Barry, advanced years providing superior botanical knowledge, warned that the daisies would die anyway, if we picked them.

I was undeterred in my mission of mercy, so he humoured me anyway. We spent eternity, rescuing as many as we could. In an absence of anything more sensible, I used my skirt, to form an impromptu sling for the rescued.

The job was too big. It was also more tiring and boring than I anticipated. Defeated, we returned to our steps and watched sadly, as The Lawnmower Man completed his salaried atrocity. Barry consoled me, but then Barry always did. At some point later, with a bit of an 'Oh, bugger!' moment, we understood that the daisies in my skirt, were dead too.

With the pragmatism of the very young, we dumped the daisies somewhere and returned to our respective homes for lunch.

In time, McGregors senior, had a dispute concerning Mr. McGregor and the Oh Pear Made. Mrs. McGregor decamped to Scotland with her babies. Before departure, Barry was presented to me for a formal and final farewell. An awkward situation, as both mothers were in watchful attendance. In addition, I'd been cautioned by my own mother, not to cry or make a fuss, as it 'wouldn't be fair on Barry'.

Too young for handshakes, too peculiarly intimate for an embrace, we made our miserable and wooden farewells. As suddenly as Barry had appeared in my life, he was gone.

Lately, I've been reminded of this episode. My first love. Not that I recognised it as such at the time. No cute kisses or handholding for us. Just a clean and comfortable, ebb and flow of conversation, play, power-exchange - and an entire absence of internal complications. We were constrained of course, by so many external factors, but we were what we were. And until we were forcibly parted, what we were, was - perfect.

Anyone for rose tinted spectacles?

I've wondered, did that infant love suggest a personal blueprint? Did it form a foundation, for my subsequent desires and requirements from a relationship? Requirements, which unsurprisingly, have been difficult to meet.

After all, there are few of us who reach any significant age, without several Sherpas in attendance; wheezing behind us, as they toil under the weight of a lifetime's stories. How can such sweet clarity be achieved, despite such real and weighty encumbrances?

Such a relationship, such a love, must be impossible to attain. Especially, for we jaded, cynical (and let's not forget, perverted and perverse) old war-horses. Don't you think?

Replies

21 Sep 06, 12:56 PM
MarcusStrapp
UK(CB), 4 yrs
Such a love, such a daisy

DillyTante wrote:
Such a relationship, such a love, must be impossible to attain. Especially, for we jaded, cynical (and let's not forget, perverted and perverse) old war-horses. Don't you think?
As realistic as saving daises, but then, as romantic as saving daises.
On gimballed beam, realism is set against romance. My scales tip in favour of the heart.

Conventional wisdom is often more about convention than wisdom.
-- Marcus Strapp

21 Sep 06, 2:14 PM
northernwench
UK, 3 yrs

DillyTante wrote:
Especially, for we jaded, cynical (and let's not forget, perverted and perverse) old war-horses. Don't you think?

Better a war horse than a limping weasel Dilly. Blog of the month, with the award presented by Stephen Fry, once he has cheered up a little.

Honey, you're not chocolate...you're chewing gum
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYyhFl0bxss

21 Sep 06, 2:19 PM
Prunesquallor
UK, 3 yrs Dilly,
A wonderful blog. Mind you, I am somewhat miffed to discover that despite all the 'old lady' stuff you are a good bit younger than me!
I think so far as the question at the end goes, I think the kind of purity that you are seeking is what we all seek. I think that when relationships approach that purity (they can never reach it, as you said) then those are the special relationships that we treasure for the rest of our lives.
Thanks for the blog, which made me smile and sigh in equal amounts.

21 Sep 06, 6:35 PM
DillyTante
UK, 3 yrs

MStrapp wrote:
On gimballed beam, realism is set against romance. My scales tip in favour of the heart.

Ah. A romantic. I thought I might catch one, in passing.
Oh well. There's a want, need and a place for romantics, just as there are similar requirements for pragmatic old trout

Dilly

21 Sep 06, 6:36 PM
DillyTante
UK, 3 yrs

northernwench wrote:
Better a war horse than a limping weasel Dilly. Blog of the month, with the award presented by Stephen Fry, once he has cheered up a little.

Thank you northernwench!
Mr. Fry eh? He's one of my heroes, regardless of his variable frame of mind. This presentation must call for new wellingtons.
Dilly

21 Sep 06, 6:36 PM
DillyTante
UK, 3 yrs

Prunesquallor wrote:
[...] you are a good bit younger than me!
Only chronologically, Mr. P.

[...] I think that when relationships approach that purity (they can never reach it, as you said) then those are the special relationships that we treasure for the rest of our lives.
Oh yes. Yes indeed.

Dilly

21 Sep 06, 7:19 PM
PFLsAgain
UK, 3 yrs

DillyTante wrote:
The job was too big. It was also more tiring and boring than I anticipated. Defeated, we returned to our steps and watched sadly, as The Lawnmower Man completed his salaried atrocity. Barry consoled me, but then Barry always did. At some point later, with a bit of an 'Oh, bugger!' moment, we understood that the daisies in my skirt, were dead too.
It seems to me that you rescued your daisies after all. They have acquired a little mimetic life all of their own and their growth into metaphorical space rather adds to their childish prettiness too don't you think?

Anyone for rose tinted spectacles?
I find my romanticism in the oddest places. Science is the ultimate refuge of the incurables if you ask me.
"I learned what every dreaming child needs to know - no horizon is so far that you cannot see above or beyond it." ~ Beryl Markham (first pilot to cross the Atlantic solo the hard way - East to West)

21 Sep 06, 8:39 PM
caprycorn
UK, 4 yrs
Daisies come back, persistent little buggers. Almost unstoppable. Sort of like romance.
Absolutely wonderful blog; I'm now neck deep in a wash of memories and rose-hazed what once was, rather than just hip deep (I'm allowed to be sentimental at least once a year, it's the rule). My Barry was called Simon. Oh and I had another one called Michael (they were best friends and I was adopted as theirs too). Hmmmm two of them, how greedy. And if you are right that our childhood loves set the blueprint, how entirely appropriate.
xxxx
My imaginary friend thinks that you have a problem


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