A Whisper Away

It's that time of year again, that time when you can smell droplets in the air, when the bulbs have been planted, and the soil fixes on the lines in skin, in the heart line, and the life line, and underneath nails, dry and chipped. I feel viral. I feel tired. But I have seen a russet moon, the colour of a dog's tongue.

Summer is being covered in yellow leaves and toadstools over the lawn. Is it a toadstool or a mushroom or a fungus? I never know the difference, and the spores make my breath rasp, my chest yearn for inhaler. But it has disappeared, the heat, the longer days, and with that I'm fattening up on crumpets and cake, sausages and mash. Most things baked and fried.

I love all the colour, it's just all these damn colds.

And she, she is six weeks into year one. The stories. How so and so chased so and so. The ongoing battle of girls against boys. Who is marrying who. The grazed knees and the cut fingers. It's hard to keep up. She is happy, she has friends, and I am happy too. She is reading, she is eager to spell. When I write a letter to a friend, she must also write one too. Mummy, how do you spell birthday? Mummy, how do you spell friend? And now she has discovered a love of numbers, loves writing number sentences she says. 4+2 = 6. 15+3 = 18. I think she has her father's precise mind, he's an engineer, a lover of logic and solution. Where as I, well I'm not sure, my brain is.... I was branded unclassified in maths.

Her new thing is sewing. I draw the picture on the material, a shape, a butterfly, and she carefully eases the needle with the red thread through. Her stitches to begin with are a little erratic, set wide apart, and then she finds her flow following the pencil, finding the coordination in her hands. She prefers it to the IPad. She prefers it to Pinky Pie and Princess Twilight Sparkle.

Any clues to Summer have now faded from my face. The colour. The freckles. All gone. I look a little wan, a little waxy under the eyes. And I try pulling back the warmer days but even their memories are as pale as my skin. A holiday home - an old vicarage. An ancient town built on a hill. The harbour. The cobbled streets. The tea rooms. The back garden disappearing under lavender, under holly hocks, under fallen apples. The wonky floors and the old beams. A princess castle with a moat. A grand old house with old, old wall paper and the smell of dusty, unread books - the smell of history. Days on a beach over-turning shells, adding height to sandcastles, running from an incoming tide. A weekend spent with Granny, and an aunt in her new pub. And a few days in a forest lodge with dappled sunlight and roaming deer. The discovery that peacocks can fly and the gift of a fallen feather. A morning spent purifying in the steam of a Japanese salt bath and the eucalyptus of a Turkish Hamman... It all seems a whisper away now.    

And half term is around the corner. She has a new coat and new wellies. The zip on my coat is broken. And the winds are coming and so is the rain. One last mow of the lawn. One last pruning back of the shrubs and the clemetis overgrown.

I have my light box switched on: I am galvanising myself for shorter days...

#Once upon a time - 365 Days

Once upon a time .....

One day, only a week a go, we all squeezed inside the long blue van, Younger Dad, Little A and I. It was a long long van, plenty of room for the brand new double mattress and away-away bags in the back, even space for monkey and doggy. A very used van; rust on the hubcaps, a small dent on the bonnet, scratches along the side of the sliding door. Witches fingernails? Or dragon's claws? Probably a swipe from a bony branch along a narrow bramble-lined road. 'It's so high up,' said Little A. It was fun with a view, even if my hips were compromised, wedged between the inflexible bookends of a child seat and door. Younger Dad drove. I read. 'Can I watch Frozen on the ipad?' a little voice asked. We were on our way to Norfolk, to Granny's; to accost the Easter bunny, to reload the van with a veritable cardboard city of Younger Dad's history, perhaps also a pin ball machine, a proper one with lights and things that go ping. And where exactly was it going to go? Next to the dining table? In the shed?...... Younger Dad pulled over, time to eat, asserted the weight of the rented vehicle, parked in a diagonal across two spaces; no messin' our family of three...

And the irony wasn't lost. A year ago, box upon box stacked ceiling-high in the living room, sucking the oxygen from the air, blocking the light from the sash windows. Dry. It made my mouth dry. And dust. In hair, on scalp, in the grooves of my palms. Masking tape stuck on the carpet, on lips, along the skirting boards. The big big move. Away from London, but not quite, still zone seven, in the north west ring of the Home Counties. Far enough from the urban cry of sirens, close enough for a curry in Brick Lane or a trip to the zoo. The best decision ever made.

The hob didn't work, the fridge broke down, there were ants and leaks and damp. A garden choked in weeds. And we loved every minute of it, even if it was the coldest spring, and half the new living room was for months an unpacked tower(s) of books and records and unnecessary jetsam. Little A began a wonderful pre-school, will begin the primary school six doors down the road this September - a sky blue uniform, a brand new adventure - with her favourite friends and cousins. So good living near family now, for a cup of tea, a chat and a shoulder; a palpable belonging. I pulled out the dandelions and the creeping buttercups, replaced them with lavender and snapdragons, terracotta pots and ornaments. A garden to sit in, feel proud of, the hollow curlink-curlink sounds of the wooden wind chime hanging from the arm of the silver birch. I wrote. A lot. Pounded through the first draft of a novel, tapping away at the window table of the bestest local cafe ever - like evoooor - eating slice after slice after slice of cake. We have celebrated birthdays, held parties, and relaxed in the warm fuzz of a lazy first Christmas. Now we have ambitious plans; to extend outwards, to build upwards, to make our mark, to stamp the interior in the colour of three different personalities; to make our house a family home. And here I am. Calm(er) and quiet. Myself.

The pinball machine never made it, beyond repair. Never mind eh? But many boxes did, arranged against the living room wall. Piles and piles of old music and technology magazines. A twenty five year old computer. Degree course work. The milestones of Younger Dad's life. When we arrived back from Norfolk, a cloud burst had deepened the colour in the garden; pea green grass and roaring pink clematis, like the rich fondant centre of a strawberry chocolate. Is this what shamans see? Home. Home. Home...

On Hold

The garden. It has pulled me from fug and haze. Saved me from tears and tantrums.

But therein lies a problem.

Beer. Sunshine. Alfresco dining. Strawberries and ice cream. Potting. Planting, Growing. Admiring.

There's been very little writing the past fourteen days.  

Every time I've stepped on the gravel, viewed the surrounding beauty, a tempting voice in my head coaxes my wallet, 'just one more pot - a small one along side those larger two would look perfect,' 'one more hardy shrub,' 'another flowering sage,' 'more lavender.' And then to the garden centre, my new, bestest hangout. Younger Dad has told me STOP. But I can't help myself. I have a store card. 10% off all plants. A free cup of tea. What's a girl supposed to do eh?

And it's not just flora. I've purchased garden stakes, a Buddha head, a fat stone hippo, a wooden wind chime. The latest buy, a garden table and chairs. Heaven help me....

Do you think I am indoors writing this? Mais non. 

I'm sat under the parasol, breathing in the air, blue sky, the hollowed harmonics of the wind chime, pinks, creams, mauve, electric blues. White lavender. Purple lavender. The feathery green acer, the russet red.

The spindly flowers of the tomato plant. The bright orange trumpets of the courgette - the way they suddenly open, then curl in, fingers entwined. The ripening strawberries. The fattening lettuce leaves.

I am so looking forward to a long lazy summer.

Social media is on hold. 

Green Fingers

"So then," says Younger Dad, "the garden is your responsibility, I will mow the lawn."

"Oh," I replied.

My fingers certainly aren't in cahoots with the earth. No, definitely not green. I don't enjoy the gritty sensation of soil particles under my nails. The idea of worms wrapping around my fingers. Slug spittle gobbed on stems.

I can't remember the last time I had a garden. I think it was nine years ago. Brambles and nettles. Nettles and brambles. Before that? My home of origin. Sycamore trees. Bluebells. Fat peonies.

When I surveyed our new garden, all I saw was a massive tangle of overgrown weeds. When was the last time this poor garden received care and attention? The previous owners had let it go somewhat, the scene before me mirroring my dark chocolate habit...

Out. Of. Control.

Creeping buttercups - advancing armies of assaulting yellow - choked the flower beds, attacked the gravel pathway. Gangs of dandelions glared with 'what'ya look'in at luv' malicious intent. Tall green villains bullied the remaining shrubs maybe once planted with an 'English garden' vision in mind.

Tools were bought. A pokey prodder thing. A shovel thing. A fork thing. Little A had her very own yellow bucket and blue watering can. Then a week ago, project weed began in earnest. I donned my gardening gloves and began uprooting the green invasion with fervent abandon, hacking away a few feet every day. And while my hands dug in, pulling out wiry white roots, dismantling the intruding infrastructures, Little A collected snails in her bucket, named the ants crawling around her ankles, made brave attempts climbing the silver birch.

And then I made a delightful discovery. One that took me by surprise.

It turns out I love gardening. 

And it works wonders for PMS.

My gardening gloves grew holes. And I didn't mind the crumbs of earth that fell inside. Or the worms my flowered-fabric fingers touched. As each unwanted weed was thrown in the bucket, another bad thought was tossed away. Turning the soil grounded the hot coals in my toes. Cool, calming, stable earth.

The flower beds are now cleared. The soil, dry and naked. A big shop at the gardening centre beckons.

I can't wait.

So far, I have placed the gift of a lavender tree beside the garden fence, planted French lavender papillon - their feathery heads like Native American head dress, potted burgeoning tomato and courgette plants.

Next week, Little A's Jack-and-the-Beanstalk sunflower will find a new home in the borders.