Birthdays

My childhood summers were spent in the country. In a place where time had not quite stood still but had certainly fallen behind to admire its surroundings and to dream a little in the sunshine. It was a place where hay in the small fields stood in golden ricks that served as look out posts and hiding places. In the “big field”, the baler left great blocks bound in diesel scented twine, from which we built our forts and towers. Boys measured their strength in the hefting of a bale and our skins pricked and itched from the scratching stubble.

Ancient kitchen gardens, bound in box and steaming in manure, netted against the marauding crows, grew strawberries, gooseberries, blackberries, blackcurrants, redcurrants, raspberries, loganberries and great marrows in quantities vastly beyond the dwindling needs of the pearled and permed residents of The Big House.

My grandparents own more modest plots, boxed neatly along the path from the laurel walk to the magical ruins of the sheds and the hen house, held scallions, cabbages, beetroot and fresh parsley, which was a special treat when dewy with fresh rain. Lines of sweet pea scented the air as well as glorious rows of carnation.

From the stillness of the morning to the scented golden evening, we listened for familiar sounds that marked the ritual rhythm of the day. We woke to “O’Donnell Abu” on the radio. The regular pulsing rasp of milking reminded the boys of the sound of peeing in a bucket, though we’d never dare to say such a thing aloud. The creaking of the garden gate that heralded Grandad’s arrival back from the yard reminded us of the story of our lost infant uncle’s excitement at that same sound before the smallpox vaccine stole him. “How old would Uncle Noel be now?” we would ask, innocent to the agonies those questions must have stirred in our Gran’s stoic heart.

July’s first weeks sharpened our ears for other sounds. The familiar Renault rattle of the post van as it turned from the road and scrabbled gravel on the avenue. We counted the gated pauses, our excitement squeaking like the gates. When the engine stopped, we counted the paces in our heads and waited for the post man to appear. We tried, competing cousins, to act as if we didn’t care how many envelopes he bore, but we did. We watched for imagined packages that were already waiting hidden in the “good room”.

On Sunday’s the warm familiar purring of a Morris Minor announced the arrival of parents and younger siblings and sometimes other cars flocked with cousins. The grown ups ruled the house, squinting at football matches on the television in a room made for a wake, blinds drawn to the sun. We ruled the lawn and the long garden, sallying out into the heat from our hay rick fort and an old wigwam, bought with Green Shield Stamps, that reeked from curious dogs' cocked legged visits.

After tea, and sad goodbyes, hiding unspoken relief at the departure of cousins and sisters too young to be appreciated, we chased the cars, waving until we could no longer see them and then, standing still, listened to the last fading rumble.

Yesterday, I watched three blond heads bob, scamper, and run, chasing my car and waving great Y shaped goodbyes . As they shrank in the mirror I wondered if they too knew my sound and listened until they could no longer hear my wake.