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 were 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.