Bass Coast Writers Group
Counting
By Colin Campbell, Bass Coast Writers Group
Smells; the sprig of lavender in my pillow, the moment she ‘turns out’ the pudding from the basin and the jam cascades down the sides, an apple ‘cored’ and stuffed with sugar and raisins, with cloves stuck beneath the baked-brown skin and brought to squat, steaming, on my plate ….
I feel the rough khaki of his Home Guard uniform against my legs and smell his shaving soap, his sweat and the Brasso he’s used to shine his buttons and cap badge. He carries me around the garden, telling me things … about the apple tree and the gooseberry bushes and about the stone where the thrush smashes the snails before he eats them. We visit the chickens and talk to them, telling them to hurry up and lay eggs; we ask the rabbits to have their babies soon, please.
When I am a little older than I am at this moment, I go with him to the bottom fence and we count together as the ‘Lancaster’ and ‘Halifax’ bombers pass overhead on their way to Germany. Their roaring makes conversation impossible so I count on my fingers until they are all used up and then he takes over on his.
“That’s a lot, Grandad, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, dear. Though when they come back tomorrow morning, there won’t …” and he shakes his head.
“What, Grandad?”
“Nothing, boy. Let’s go and see if there’s a ripe apple for you. Perhaps the blackcurrants are ready, too.”
Counting
By Colin Campbell, Bass Coast Writers Group
Smells; the sprig of lavender in my pillow, the moment she ‘turns out’ the pudding from the basin and the jam cascades down the sides, an apple ‘cored’ and stuffed with sugar and raisins, with cloves stuck beneath the baked-brown skin and brought to squat, steaming, on my plate ….
I feel the rough khaki of his Home Guard uniform against my legs and smell his shaving soap, his sweat and the Brasso he’s used to shine his buttons and cap badge. He carries me around the garden, telling me things … about the apple tree and the gooseberry bushes and about the stone where the thrush smashes the snails before he eats them. We visit the chickens and talk to them, telling them to hurry up and lay eggs; we ask the rabbits to have their babies soon, please.
When I am a little older than I am at this moment, I go with him to the bottom fence and we count together as the ‘Lancaster’ and ‘Halifax’ bombers pass overhead on their way to Germany. Their roaring makes conversation impossible so I count on my fingers until they are all used up and then he takes over on his.
“That’s a lot, Grandad, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, dear. Though when they come back tomorrow morning, there won’t …” and he shakes his head.
“What, Grandad?”
“Nothing, boy. Let’s go and see if there’s a ripe apple for you. Perhaps the blackcurrants are ready, too.”