A Birthday Present for Mum

Following the trauma of a broken marriage, here I was with two young children occupying the back bedroom of my parents’ council house. The same bedroom where I had shared a bed with my two younger sisters when life seemed simple. The situation was far from ideal but the lesser of two evils.

Returned from my work as a legal secretary, my children already home from the same school that I had attended twenty years earlier, I had prepared the family evening meal.  Whilst waiting for my parents return, the Leicester Mercury came through the letterbox as it had for my entire life. I sat down to flick through the newspaper. Listed on the ‘Entertainment’ page, I spotted that the Sound of Music was being screened at the Gaumont in town.

It was early April and with mum’s birthday on the 18^th, I asked her if she fancied a night at the pictures for her birthday. We had both heard good reports of the film. Dad was willing to babysit, so we got ready and I drove my banger of an Austin 1100 into town.  In 1973 it was still possible to park at the side of the road in Leicester without incurring massive charges or fines and I pulled up and parked outside the cinema in the marketplace.

I paid for our two seats, and we sat through thirty minutes of the Pathe News, future screenings, and a host of advertisements. We then sat back in the almost full house for the main event.

The fresh-faced Julie Andrews had been perfectly cast as Maria. A probationary nun, she was full of energy and enthusiasm for life. It seemed unlikely from the start that she would succeed to a fully-fledged nun.  Opening shots found her happily escape the convent into the fresh-air and magnificence of the mountain pastures.

The air as Maria ran up the hillside could almost be inhaled, so fresh and crisp in stark contrast to the cigarette smoke-filled cinema. Oblivious to this, we had mentally been transported to the beautiful scene on the mountainside.  Aerial views were breath-taking. We felt airborne as the wide screen scanned the iridescent green grass, dappled with the alpine wildflowers.

From the crescendo of music causing Julie Andrews to burst into song - “The hills are alive with the sound of music!” - gloomy or negative thoughts evaporated; we there, in Austria.

As Maria took up a position as governess, we smiled at the unrealistic fun and trickery of the seven children. She paraded them around Austria in green patterned brocade play-clothes, a severe contrast to their absent father’s strict dress-code.

From that, we experienced an emotional sadness for the naïve nun, mentally torn with her conflicting feelings for her place in life. We felt an instant dislike for the Countess Shreider and disappointment at the announcement of her engagement to Captain Georg von Trapp. The children mirrored our upset at the announcement.

Breath was held with anxiety when German soldiers searched the crypt. Hiding seven children in silence as torchlights searched for a stray arm or foot behind the gravestones.  Tension quickly subsided to hilarity in a few seconds as a nun secreted the military Citroen’s distributor cap under her cassock – not a trace of oil or grease to be found on her hands or clothing.  

The music was wonderful. Again, evoking a range of emotions. Fun as the children were taught to sing the music scales. Pleasure flooded the senses as the children bid ‘goodnight’ from a house party in melodic song, leaving the youngest and cutest until last.  Goose-pimples arose as Maria walked down the aisle to a full-orchestral rendition of “How do you solve a problem like Maria?” She looked the definition of purity and grace in full bridal dress, a simple flower garland crowning her hair.

If a favourite song is possible from the musical score, it had to be Christopher Plummer singing ‘Edelweiss’. His voice cracking with despair as he tried to prolong the experience to allow his young family to make their escape. It seemed impossible that he could escape and join them from the packed auditorium where the Nazi’s awaited his arrest at the end of the competition.

I looked through my tears at mum, as she looked back through hers.

The interval had offered the opportunity for an ice-cream. All part of the birthday treat. I queued along the aisle to the screen area where the usherette had taken up her spot. With the heavy tray around her neck, she sold strawberry or vanilla ice-cream by torchlight. Returning to my seat with two waxed cardboard tubs, our only problem in life was to remove the contents with a small, flat, wooden spatula, preferably before the ice-cream melted in our sweaty palms and the lights were again dimmed.

As we left the cinema that night, we had a smile on our faces and a skip in our step. We felt lighter for the impromptu introduction to an iconic film that has been enjoyed again and again over many years.

We returned home, me to the one bedroom containing my world - two children, fast asleep in newly acquired bunkbeds, my single bed slotted in beside them at a most traumatic time. My temporary escape had offered a lift in mood and hope that things could only get better – and they did.

CW

Image sourced in public domain here.

Things that make me happy …

When challenged to define the things that make me happy, I find it far from easy.  Day to day events unfold in a way that might have been anticipated, with some degree of pleasure or happiness.  There is a well known saying that goes: ‘To travel hopefully is better than to arrive’.

Happiness is also the hidden ingredient in the maxim of St Paul; ‘Wherever possible be at Peace with all men.’

I would advise that a state of “Happiness” is (as an objective) not a very satisfactory pursuit, and more attention should be given to personal Contentment.

Some people, I find tend to hold my ‘happiness moments’ as useful hostages to changing and challenging times.  Statements such as; “As a child you always enjoyed being held upside down and shaken,” or “Have you really given up that huge collection of matchboxes?”, or even “You were so happy then.”

Contentment however is not so vulnerable, and remains like a lake of memories, not easily drained by events or by time.

David Taylor

Nothing said to the Girlfriend - 1963

I was eighteen at the time and my then girlfriend and I were to be seen going about he town on an old DKR 125cc scooter.  In 1963 this form of transport was normal for most of my compatriots, and motor cars seemed quite out of the question. 

I however had a reasonably well paid job, and more importantly I did not follow the popular trend of smoking cigarettes.  Beer drinking is something that I have to admit to, but this was never excessive as I was aware of my driving licence.  As a result, I was able to afford driving lessons once a week on a Saturday morning.

I decided to say nothing to either my girlfriend or any of my mates just in case I failed the approaching driving test.  After eight weeks silence, and with a degree of satisfaction with my progress, things suddenly changed!

It was late on this particular Saturday morning and I was attempting a three point turn in the cul-de-sac close to my girlfriend’s home.  Yes you have guessed.  My girlfriend and her mother came walking up the road complete with shopping bags.  I was soon seen and caught, as they say, ‘bang to rights.’

My inevitable interrogation came later in the day.

“How long have you been doing lessons?” my girlfriend demanded.  “Were you going to tell me”?

Was I?  Hum!

David Taylor

 

The Bells

           I should have known better than to cut through the churchyard, on my own late at night, with the last of the storm swirling the leaves around my head. Even in 2018 it wasn’t suitable for a fifteen-year-old girl but it was a short cut to safety in the warmth of Mum and Dad’s.

          Not far to go now, but suddenly the bells began to ring. The church was in total darkness but still they tolled and I began to be spooked. It was almost pitch black and the wind was howling but I could just make out the shape of the litter bin lying on its side on the path. A newspaper was sticking out waiting to be blown to pieces amongst the headstones. Instinctively I pulled it out and saw the date, 11^th November 1918. Was I dreaming? What was going on?

          A chill ran down my spine as I pulled my collar up. Something made me tuck the paper under my arm as the bells carried on. Why was the paper there and why did that date bother me? Of course, it was the date my great grandfather died in France, and later that same day that the Germans finally surrendered. If only he had survived one more day, he too would have been heading for safety.

          The noise behind me broke the spell. Don’t stand here you fool. I just ran like the clappers…   

Phil Fricker