November afternoon 1970
Ubiquitous grey of suburban concrete tempered by shadows & black tarmacadam. Gun metal clouds run with rain-filled, pot-bellied cumulus. Dublin Mountain secrets are shrouded in an enigmatic mist. Damp dogs, familiar and solitary - stalk the neighbourhood. Chilblained children run to shops for bottles of milk, large sliced pans & the Evening Press. Snowstorm televisions transmit perfect childhoods in ‘perfidious Albion’. Clipped & jolly voices invite us to make spaceships from cereal boxes; pencil cases from tin cans; implore us to create stuffed animals from exotic materials with words like ‘shall’ & ‘rather’. We laugh our snots up & down at their colonial enthusiasm but secretly prefer it to the home-grown drone. Another turgid school day over, we carelessly rush off a bit of homework on the red Formica table, impatient to devour the next most coveted Enid Blyton book - all jolly well spiffing and smashing; lower thirds & upper fifths so alluring; lacrosse & gymkhanas so intriguing; midnight feasts so captivating. It has been twilight since mid-day. Green double-decker busses carry leaden workers home. The flames in the fireplace act out their own stories; their animated oranges, reds & purples trumping the grainy, happy staccato from across the Irish Sea. The clothes on the line are sad & heavy, longing like us for the warmth of the summer sun. The kettle whistles on the gas stove, the Angelus bells ring & Mammy makes our tea. Our daily missives inject adrenalin into the moth hour. Later, Daddy will appear on the doorstep with stories from far-flung places. We will speed ride imaginary bicycles to heat up our beds & sing ourselves to sleep. © Berni Dwan 2017 |
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