The House
by Penny Humphrey
I try to remember the good times, the happy times when we were young
and were shielded from the cold and cruel realities of life.
I have come back to look for that house from long ago where we played
and laughed and cried only about silly things like whose turn it was to be
Mr. Wolf or ride on the tricycle.
Looking back on my childhood through the veil of years and the
inevitable knocks and bruises that life throws, there is a tinge of sadness
because of the innocence which is unprotected and cannot remain; reality
will inevitably creep up one day to tap you on the shoulder when you are
least ready for it.
And here it is, the dark house by which once more I stand, here in the
long and lovely street I remember so well.
The memories come surging back and envelope me completely, the big
glossy black door with its opulent brass door knocker in the shape of a
lion's head still shining brightly as always. The big Edwardian windows
offering lightness to the elegant rooms within. I crane my neck upwards
past the Virginia creeper, shielding my eyes from the sunlight and see the
window of my bedroom. It is wide open and blue patterned curtains
swing in and out of the window in the breeze.
My curtains had prints of long forgotten nursery rhymes; there were
model air planes hanging from the ceiling by long pieces of cotton.
My father helped me to build those planes, glueing and fixing intricate
pieces of ply wood, he would ruffle my hair and laugh when my small
fingers could not manage and he would make me laugh at myself too. It
never occurred to me then that he would not always be there, how it was
then would surely be how it would always be?
My eyes stray away from the house and down the sweep of the lovely
street.
Of course it is the sweet shop I remember and spending my Saturday
sixpence on a sherbert dab and a packet of spangles. But more than that, I
remember my mother's warm hand holding mine, swinging a basket with
her other hand and standing in the queue in the butchers shop waiting to
buy the Sunday joint.
I looked at the pork chops and the bloody liver in white trays in the
window, not knowing that they had been removed from lanimals, not
even knowing the word dead or what it might have meant. There was
sawdust on the floor and a strange smell in the butchers shop. I wasn't
sure that I liked it very much.
I return my gaze to the house and think of the back garden where my
sister and I made up stories as we sat in the tree house. I will not come
here again but today it has fulfilled a need, a need to remember and to
keep those precious memories of childhood which are mine alone.