Open Writing

About this time of year something happens to my bed. Although its magnetic pull is the daily bane of my workaday life, suddenly it feels even more comfortable; the sheets appear invitingly warmer and softer, the pillows stay at just the right slant.

Each morning our parting become more acute. A condemned man could not enjoy the luxury of an extra five minutes more than I. For twenty-three years I have struggled to become adept in the art of being the first to leave it, but as yet I only manage on birthdays and holidays.

These are all signs that the pleasures of autumn are descending upon us. The ‘back end’ season of fires and toast, chips instead of salad, succulent stews and butter-filled crumpets are with us once more. Our kitchen is brimming with wintry sounds even now.

The sizzle of wet teabags on hot cinders mingled with the welcoming-home cries of ‘shut that door!’ followed by the dreaded rattle of an empty coal bucket heralding its answering chorus of ‘I filled it last.’

A much-enjoyed winter’s afternoon treat at our house is home-toasted marshmallows. For the uninitiated all you need is a packet of marshmallows and a long fork each. My children use my old knitting needles. Stick a mallow on the end, hold in front of the fire, preferably coal when it's nice and red, until hot and gooey, and then eat. One packet lasts twice as long and they are lip-smacking tasty.

Now is about the right time to bring your gardener in from the cold, replacing his spade with a paint can and brush, of course. During this ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’ I have dutifully ‘ploughed the fields and scattered’ my sopranic intonations all over school and chapel. I love the rousing harvest hymns, second only to the Christmas Carols. It is such a relief unashamedly to exercise one’s arpeggios. For some reason I only feel able to do this fully when drowned by the sound of other voices – or the sound of my vac sometimes sets me off.

On the odd occasion I do give full vent – unaccompanied – someone always intervenes. In the middle of one exceptionally sensitive rendering from my ‘Madame Butterfly’ selection I was supporting myself dramatically on the fridge door as I peered into the distance at my audience – the dog. ‘He comes,’ my voice held a tear, ‘Can you guess who it is . . . can you guess what he’ll sayyyy?’ I was almost sobbing, when a brusque voice from behind me grunted ‘Parcel missus.’

I have tried all my life to understand my mother’s aversion to all things hymnal. The inspirational vocal efforts repeatedly performed by my sister and I with intermittent bass and tenor harmony from my father only brought forth her walking coat and a fond farewell, ‘You put years on me.’

Having attended harvest functions for many years with young toddlers, it was a feeling of relief that I eventually went solo. It gives one a certain power to be able to sing from a hymn sheet held the right way up, without a dead weight in one arm and a writhing escapist on the other.

The smell and sight of all the untouchable fruit seems to have an adverse effect on the young, mine had to be trained for a week in advance.

The pleasure of my first lone appearance was slightly marred by the unnerving stare of an overgrown baby hanging over the shoulder of his mother in front of me. His fat little pulpy features were disfiguringly plugged by an outsize dummy, which amazingly remained intact until the final Amen.

His bottom lip was in constant danger of overtaking his plastic rim, and most disturbing for my debut. Instead of letting go I found myself whispering – he seemed just as horrified by my singing as I was with his sucking.

He had sucked it so vigorously, when mum finally removed it he still bore the scar and looked as if he was still sucking it.

I had a nasty shock at one harvest, someone had removed all the schoolchildren! We adults were left to fend for ourselves. With no one sure when to stand or kneel.

We spent the first half bobbing up and down and the second half seriously divided. One half stood the other half sat.