Open Writing

'Is this an indication of our future weather?’ asked one bikini-clad daughter as we sat sunning ourselves during that scorching afternoon in late May.

Unfortunately the heat-wave we were hoping to become accustomed to has not arrived – yet. The colourful bunch of sundresses that optimistically filled the stores in early spring are now wilting sadly on their hangers.

The postcard scribblers have had to change their style. According to most of England’s soggy holiday outlook, any hint of ‘Wish you were here’ could be bordering on the vindictive.

We have facsimiles of sun-baked sand dunes, washed by turquoise seas and voluptuous saucy maidens pinned up all around our kitchen sink. Glorious technicolour miniatures depicting how beaches and belles ought to look during this season, but the side facing the wall paints a somewhat duller picture.

However, some stalwarts are dedicated to ‘having a wonderful time,’ whatever the weather. ‘It never kept us in,’ I heard one compulsive nose-wiper inform a bus conductress as she guided her cap and scarf-hidden husband off the bus with their luggage.

A postman friend delivered two cards bearing the same Blackpool postmark to one house, but the messages bore little resemblance. ‘Having a super time, weather not too bad,’ reported one; the other was slightly more succinct, ‘Weather rotten – fed up.’

But are these 5in x 4in’s designed to carry home true holiday confessions? Which sounds worse, a spurious, light-hearted cover-up attempt or a ruthless reveal-all?

My pep talk to our holiday-departing son concerning the necessity for a sentence or two to apprehensive parents regarding his arrival must have been keenly digested. The promised card arrived home before him, for once. But I feel less explicit tidings would have sufficed. He sent us a view as requested. The picture showed what was left of an ugly piece of rock, being bashed unmercifully by an angry sea. His message ran: ‘Have just been severely repremanded by hotel management for being too noisy last night. Food good, rained every day – played golf – red hot.’

A friend tells me his teenage daughter’s message home described ‘Rotten weather, a bilious sea crossing’ and concluded ‘having a super time.’

There is no doubt at certain ages kind weather does kindle the holiday spirits. There’s a lot to be said for the professional ‘aunties’ and ‘uncles’ working the holiday camps who earn their rewards entertaining youngsters so mums and dads can sneak off and learn to converse again. At least that’s what I tell myself as I send off this expensive deposit which dispels our youngest daughter’s favourite delusion, ‘And it’s all free,’ she loves to boast to friends. If this inclement weather continues, they will certainly extract our money’s worth.

It doesn’t help to read in the morning paper that the temperatures in New York are blazing so high, apartment walls are starting to crack with the heat.

But if this ‘back-end’ weather is tarnishing our holiday brightness the horticultural harvest is thriving profusely – without the sun. Every evening our gardener returns in hand-rubbing exuberance, his lettuce-filled pockets dragging the holes in his cardigan down to his knee patches. Yesterday he crept in with a small bundle cradled affectionately in the crook of his arm. We gathered round to learn we are the proud co-owners of a cuddly, crumbly, baby cauliflower!

While we femmes swap symptoms arising from TV’s ‘Medical Story’ (I wish the BBC would invent some fictitious diseases that didn’t need surgery and could not possibly happen to me) gardening terms are floating back and forth among the weeds. ‘We’ll ‘ave plenty on, but nowt in ‘em yet,’ boasts one, evoking a subtle comment from another concerning his ‘swollen trusses’ and the remarkable size of his beans.

I just wish there was another way to serve the ever-increasing lettuce that seems to be taking over and what a pity tender juicy young peas have to be ruined by twenty minutes of boiling water.

Garden tips are flowing like fertiliser. One advocate discovered a unique way to cure depressed lettuce was to cover his open cold frame with netting. Marvelling at this unusual deduction I felt bound to ask what difference this made. ‘It keeps your mother’s cat out,’ was the altruistic reply.

It is a shame that at this crucial time on the gardening calendar one wife tells me her husband has been struck down with the dreaded ‘bad back’ syn-drome. But he still tries to help in his own way. Only the other day he called her away from her spade to his deck-chair. Telling her she looked exhausted he fished into his top pocket and gallantly offered her two of his glucose sweets to be sucking while she worked.

Naturally I try to play my small part in the scheme of things. I prod pro-fessionally at the pea pods, gasp at the size of his onions and last week I was actually allowed to hold the hose for a few minutes while our expert turned off the water. I have learned to stop asking what he uses to make the tomato leaves curl up so glamorously – it would have little effect on my hair anyway.