Mrs McCabe, our elderly neighbour to the left-hand-side of our home is not talking to Papa because he has fried the rabbits. Yes, you indeed heard correct, the rabbits! These were the same pet rabbits that lived at the end of our garden in a hutch that Papa especially built, and the very same pet rabbits that Mrs McCabe would lovingly coo over whenever she poked her head over the other side of the garden fence into ours (see post Hot Pants). She had not seen them for a while so asked Papa how they were, and he replied in a very-matter-of-fact way that, Oh, Mrs McCabe, thank you for asking! They were absolutely delicious soaked in garlic and then lightly fried in olive oil. Mr McCabe cannot believe her ears and is appalled that Papa can do such a thing. She has told him in no uncertain terms that he is a disgusting barbarian and that in England pets are not for frying. They are for nurturing and loving just as you would do a member of your own family. Now Mrs McCabe won’t speak to Papa, and whenever they coincide in the front or back garden she makes a point of ignoring him as if he were not there.
I don’t think that Papa really cares, but the problem is that if Mrs McCabe tells Mrs Hunter on the right and then Mrs Robinson two doors down on the left, they might also decide not to talk to Papa, and if they also see that he does not care, then they might decide to stop talking to all of us. Then we would lose the friendship of Mrs Robinson and I would not want that; Mrs Robinson told Sis and I on our first day at 51 Crescent Road that we could call her Nanny Robbie because we have no grandmother of our own here (see post Girl With Television), and I am very grateful to Nanny Robbie for her kindness. If Nanny Robbie stops talking to us, then Sis and I will lose the only person that cares for us in the whole of England aside from Mama and Papa, and all because Papa fried the rabbits. I sincerely hope that Nanny Robbie does not withdraw her affection, for if this were to happen it would make me enormously sad.
Much as I like Mrs McCabe, I cannot really fathom why she is so upset. The rabbits were indeed lovely, but I of course understand that all domestic animals when no longer useful can be eaten. This is what we have always done in Tenerife with the goats, pigs, and chicken that we had in our yard, and this is exactly what Papa has done with the rabbits. It will take Mrs McCabe a long time to forgive Papa for what he has done, but for Sis and I, the rabbits are soon forgotten as we resume our everyday lives.
Every Saturday, Mama, Sis and I continue to walk past the Larry Morgan's photographic studio on our way to the television rental shop. Once there, we will faithfully pay our few pounds weekly rental fee for the black and white set taking pride of place in the lounge of our home at 51 Crescent Road (see post ). The burn on my leg is healing well, and in its place a scar is slowly beginning to form. This scar will remind me for life of the disastrous attempt to concoct the perfect English Breakfast (see post English Breakfast). Sis is now four so she no longer has any use for her push chair, and as we walk past on this weekend day in the Brentwood of the early 1970's, I always make sure to slow down the pace. That way I can absorb the sight of wonderful bicycles on display in the next-door shop window for as long as possible before they once again disappear out of view behind me. My yearning is made all the more acute because I have already been inside the premises with Mama, Papa and Sis and have surreptitiously seen from a close-up distance what has been missing from my life up until now; the fabulous world of bicycles (see post Toast And Television).
Soon after arriving in Brentwood, Papa informs us that we are going to have our family portrait taken so that we can send it back home to the family in Spain. And this is how we end up paying a visit to the Larry Morgan's photographic studio with the captivating bicycles just feet away from me. On the morning of the visit we all dress up and Larry Morgan proceeds to immortalise us in a family portrait that captures the essence of the moment and the era; Mama and Papa take pride of place smiling gently into the camera, a chubby and cherubim-faced Sis sits innocently in-between Mama and Papa's lap, and I stand on the outer edge of the photo next to Mama, wistfully looking ahead as my wavy dark tresses cascade carelessly around my small shoulders. My outfit is yet another hand-me down from another of Papa's kind work friends, and I am growing so fast that the sleeves are already becoming too short. My dark Spanish eyes, the window to the soul, stare vacantly ahead exuding a sad and faraway look. And they do not lie. England may have luxurious green grass, television, Mars bars, salt and vinegar crisps, cream cakes and other such marvels that I could have never dreamed of in my former life, but I am still yearning for that place I once called home. A place where I look and have a name just like everybody else. Here I do not (see post Share The Moon ).
Unbeknown to Mama and Papa, at night-time I escape on my magic carpet and return home. I fly back over the patchwork of emerald-coloured fields that stretched out before me outside the aeroplane window on my arrival in this strange land many moons ago, turn down towards the warm waters of the Atlantic, skirt the coast of Africa, over the mountains and finally I am back on my beautiful Island. Once again on my beach, I listen to the roar of the waves as they crash on the shoreline, feeling the hot black sand on the soles of my bare feet, and the power of the scorching sun on my little face. I look up and see the majestic Teide volcano in the distance, silently watching over me as it did on the day of my birth, and it’s a safe and warm feeling. ‘Mari Carmen! dónde has estado? where have you been?’ the mountains, the sun and the beach all ask me in unison. But I am too busy to answer for I have already jumped into the warm Atlantic waters, and after I have had my fill of paradise I lay down on the black sand and dry off in the hot sun. After a while I fall into a deep sleep, and once the first light of dawn begins to break outside my bedroom window, the bewitching nocturnal adventure slowly concludes. By the time the sun has risen into the morning sky I am once again on the emerald island of The English (see post Watching The English Part III).
Along with the demise of the rabbits, the failed attempts at baking and the resulting burnt leg, the bitter-sweet yearning for my never-to-return previous life is soon eclipsed. This is because, just around the corner, something magical awaits us all and this is called The English Christmas.
To be continued...
Next post: 4th October: Welcome Christmas
Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some additions from private family archives.
