A WONDERFUL LIFE (SHORT STORY)

By Fiona Cummings

 What is the most homely dream you have? Do you have one? Perhaps it goes back to your childhood, for me it kind of does, with a little bit of a holiday I had with my X and a holiday with my Hub, Teen and American family. All mixed into one big dream. A dream of a perfect life!

 Deep in the valleys of Wales, surrounded by green hills and streams. The water trickling over the rocks and pebbles. The smell of freshly cut grass and burning wood, along with the smell of the coal fires coming out of the chimneys from the line of little stone cottages, at the bottom of the valley! My cottage is one of them. six in a row. Mine is the one on the end, with the rap around garden. Mr Thompson lives next door, with his dear wife. They have lived in the cottage since they were first married, almost fifty years ago. Mr Thompson, frequently brings us some carrots and potatoes from his allotment and tomatoes from his huge greenhouse, which is at the bottom of his vast garden, which curves into ours, like a fringe, running along the bottom of  our lawn.  His apple trees drape over into our garden, from the back bedroom of our cottage, I enjoy watching the naughty hungry birds, thriving on Mr Thompsons plum trees and smiling as he runs out of his house, in that funny kind of run that elderly men do. You know the kind I mean? Where they waddle from good leg to bad, and back again.

He always wears the same braces, crisscross on his back, long sleeved shirt rolled up showing his frail arms, telling stories of a hard life of digging, lifting and general outdoor activity, reddened by the weather. I laugh as he attempts to jump  up and down clapping his hands above his head, shouting “Shoo, shoo!”

The birds take no notice, as though to say,

“Oh its Mr T, if we wait here long enough, he will bring us some grated cheese and nuts will be put on our very own table?”

And he does just that.

Then he will push his beaten old wheelbarrow down his crooked path. The same old barrow, with the squeaky wheel, which sounds a bit like a swan in pain.

Not that I have heard a swan in pain before, but you get my drift?

Then from my window, I watch, as Mrs Thompson, who as children, we called Aunt Norah, comes out with her tray of best china tea cups and matching saucers, with two small plates on and two large plates. One of the pretty rose framed plates, is heavy with ham sandwiches and homemade cheese  scones, and the other plate, has freshly made cake on whatever takes her fancy to make that particular day.

The cake always  looks so good, One can almost taste it from a distance of between my window and her tray.

The tray is kind of tin, with a faded picture on of an old milk float, being steered by two horses and a silvered haired man, in britches and a flat cap.

When I was very young, Aunt Norah, used to ask me and my little brother Edward in her kitchen, to make gingerbread men. Oh I loved it. They used to fascinate me, like they would just jump out of the oven and run across the kitchen and hide. Their little legs were so life like.

We always gave them smiles, so they were happy little chaps.

Two doors down, is Elsie, and her three cats, Bear, who looked like a teddy bear, Rolly, who looked like a sausage roll with legs and Birdies, who was huge and always appeared as though he should own a pair of slippers and they must always be waiting for him, warming next to the coal fire.

Three doors down, is Ben, his wife  Samantha and their twins Gabriel and Michael.

The twins were a year older than me but we all used to play near the stream. Skimming stones across the other side of the water’s edge.

We used to make campfires and build dens. We played cowboys. We would run and hide in the long corn in the farmers field. If he caught us, he would chase us and put the fear of the devil in us.

That was the excitement of it all.

Samantha, would make us jam sandwiches and we would go  off  with our little picnics for the whole day.

Four doors down, is Mr Tweed. That wasn’t his name, but that is what we called him, because of the horrid old tweed jacket he used to wear all year round.

He  always walked heel to toe, with the stomp and full weight prominently on his heel.

He used to play the piano and he was great at it, at Christmas time, we would go around the few doors in our valley, and knock at his door, he would ask us in for a sing song. He would entertain us with his musical talent. He always had candles lit around his point at Christmas time, and dishes of oranges scattered in his highly polished living room.

The sixth and last door, was Graham, he was  the local policeman and he used to go to work every day on his push bike. No one was scared of him, he had a round red face and always was smiling. He was a chunky cuddly kind of guy, and we as kids used to laugh as he attempted to ride his bike, which seemed to disappear under his large frame as he kind of peddled up the hills, disappearing into the distance, through the sweeping lanes.

There was a sweetie shop about twenty minutes away. Maggie, she lived above the shop and she sold the best sweets in the whole universe. A quarter of this and a quarter of that. My favourite, was coconut mushrooms, and pineapple chunks.

Edward liked white mice and sherbet dips.

The chocolate box church rang a bell every quarter hour, which sounded like a hammer hitting on an old rusty pan. It was great though,  as we knew what time to run home for tea.

At the back of the  Fish & Chip shop, stood a   blue slide and climing frame. I loved the Tarzan swing which hung from a tall old oak tree.

Then a thing called a witches hat. That was great. Just looked like a pointy hat, you sat on it and it went round and you hung on for your life.

There was a sand pit, but Mum used to go mad if we went in that, as the mess through the house, was just dreadful.

Our house or cottage, was so homely. Mum and Dad were the most loving parents. We had a huge  black dog, called William. In winter, we used to fight for the thick rug, in front of the coal fire. William, would not give up his space on the plush rug. I loved the crackling of the fire. The colours of amber and yellows, oranges and reds, all competing for the way out via the chimney.

Mum had the room decorated in bold patterns of orange flowers on the fire breast and narrow lines of oranges of every shade on the other walls. She had a chocolate leather sofa and a rocking chair in the corner. Edward and I used to sit side by side when we were little, rocking as fast as we could, how it never tipped over, is beyond me.

Mum loved her brass. There were brass plates on the walls and candlesticks with a clock in the middle of the mantelpiece.

A large brass jug sat on the window in the living room.

The cold kitchen, was always busy, Mum cooked all day it seemed. She did her ironing, and sewing in there too. Dad used to read the newspaper in there, next to the old cooker, with the oven door open, letting out enough heat to warm him only. Upstairs, was Edwards bedroom and mine, Mum and Dad slept downstairs in what should have been the dining room. We had a tiny bathroom stuck rather awkwardly, on the corner of  the kitchen, in the back yard.

It was a blue room and so cold, but Mum used to run our bath, so by the time we went in, the room was full of steam and it was like a hothouse. I had a huge yellow duck, with the prettiest blue eyes and orange beak.

I guess you know what I called my duck?

What did everyone call their ducks?

Yep, you may be right?

Dave!

Ha, got you all there?

Edward had a wind up fish, except, you wownd it up an it  never went anywhere.

I never wanted to get out of the water, as I would shiver, until I was dry and ran to bed, our electric blanket was always on for us and Dad used to bring us up a hot water bottle for our feet.

Under the blankets, I would look out of the gap in my curtains at the stars and dark ink cloud formation, dancing around the moon, made from cheese of course. I as a child, always wondered why the moon was made of cheese?

What a waste I thought.

A happy childhood, a wonderful life?

Well, a girl can dream can’t she?

A childhood I would have loved. That is a dream.