Timeslip

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druidic
Posted by druidic on Thu 26 Jul 07, 2:18 AM

Something re-opened a door in my memory yesterday. A smell, a sight, a feeling – I don't actually know what it was – it's not that important. The important part is that the door that was opened let me enter a place of innocence, of summers when the sun shone constantly and sparkled over the river, where winters were filled with crispy snow and mugs full of hot orange squash.

I took a walk in my mind. Slowly down the middle of an avenue, moving my head from left to right, looking at all the front doors, knowing who was behind them. As I got to the end I glanced left, to the rough path, steep, a death defying stunt running a bicycle down there at full speed! The field, wandered on by various horses – I remember Shamal, chestnut, strong, soppy. I walk to my right, up the steps – I took the hill when I was young, but older now I use the path, past all the long lost secret dens, past the rope swing, past the giant fungi on that tree.

The swingpark looks the same. I smile as I recall the games played upon that heavy roundabout, then shudder a little at a recollection of humiliation and fear inflicted upon a five year old me.

That tree - the one past the swings - see the indent at the bottom - that's where the Fairy Express came out every night when we were asleep.

Move up to the disused railway line and wander along. I was six when I walked along here with a packed bag and a large teddy, running away from home, can't even recall why! Do remember though that I had packed my school clothes and my Brownie uniform and that I was sure I would eventually come across a little hut that I could live in quite happily!

Looking down at the back of the houses, dwelling for a while on the one that used to be mine. The shed that Marmaduke the mouse lived in until he froze to death one winter, the chimmney pot where that owl would sit and look at me through the window when I was in bed and supposed to be asleep, the plot of earth where the potatoes used to be grown. Move along,more houses, looking, seeing, smiling – strawberry patches, plum trees, Anderson shelters full of rusty lawnmowers, the home of a family filled with so much tragedy it makes my soul sore to think about it.

I gaze out beyond, at the ripenening fields of grain, at the hedgerows heavy with berries, at the small Victorian built school with separate boy and girl playgrounds and I hold on tight to those visions as I know none of it exists any more.

And then I slept, peacefully and without awareness of dream, but filled with the warmth of the past, with thoughts of cream soda flavoured ice lollies, of Look & Learn magazine, of blue skies, of ice slides, of red tap shoes.


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