Brown Suede Boots
it was bleakly grey and the rain was turning to sleet...but
the bright shop window beckoned with insistance....and
there they were.. brown suede ankle boots!
the years rolled back, and I was in the kitchen of the old
cream house where we lived when my Father was stationed in
Dinas Powys...
the house was beautiful, with low ceilings and flagstone
floors, the doors were huge and heavy, with enormous knobs
too big for my small hands..
I don't remember the bedrooms... we slept under a huge
wooden table in the kitchen...and only went upstairs in the
afternoons to have a bath...that was when the bombers were
reloading their killer cargo.
on a peaceful afternoon I sat in the warm bath, squeezing a
huge sponge in an ecstacy of dribbling water...the sun
slanted through the criss cross tapes on the window,
leaving criss cross shadows on the linoleum floor...with a
crash the huge bath fell off its claw feet...I slid to a
halt under the cold tap. my father rushing to investigate
clung desperatly to the door post..eventually, helpless
with laughter he wrapped me in a big towel...
there was always a lot to be done during the day, glass to
sweep away, windows to cover, dust was everywhere....then
there were lamps to prepare, thermos to fill, the first aid
box to check...
the evening darkness brought the siren's wail of warning…we
waited, safe under the huge table with its sturdy legs...we
had coloured pencils and paper...and would draw pictures of
what was going on, and each night the best were pinned to
the table legs... we played games and listened to Vera Lynn
on the red wind up gramophone.
we could hear the planes coming.. and then the howling
scream of the whistling bombs, and the sickening explosion
and scrunch as someone elses home was ...devastated....the
landmines floated down on silken parachutes with silken
cords. evil and silent... until it was too late to care
our Mother would keep busy, cooking supper, singing
cheerfully...but spending most of the time under the table
with us, she never showed fear...or fright about our Father
on duty along the coast..
if things got very bad we put on our brown suede ankle
boots, and tied the tassels 'extra tight'... our cases were
packed and ready by the back door...our teddy bears sat
snug in their coats, and had suitcases of their own, with
bright red labels tied with string.
as dawn came the noise stopped and we were able to explore
the damage...the garden seemed like heaven, the smell of
burning and gritty dust faded when you could climb a
familiar tree...I had learnt to value silence.
at the gardens end was a heavy wooden gate which led to a
lane with little houses along the other side. in one of
these my friend lived with her family... until one day I
found the gate hanging ..broken, and in the lane...a black,
smoking crater.
those days we were always tired, everything was difficult,
but people still laughed and joked, and I loved to hear the
clink as the old milkman left the white bottles on the
step…whistling as he went.
and then, one day The Letter arrived…from my Godmother, who
lived in Scotland….
we were on the move again!
Pim Claridge