Little Bird

The English Christmas spirit continues to infiltrate every nook and cranny of our home at 51 Crescent Road on this December day in 1972; Papa comes home with his own pile of recently-purchased Christmas cards and insists that I am to write out greetings to his work colleagues. When I am unable to do this, he explodes into an irrational rage (see post Carry On Christmas Cards). I am only a child, yet Papa does not understand that he is meant to help me write out my cards, not the other way around as he is expecting me to do. I am beginning to hate Christmas cards, and I am also beginning to hate Christmas. At that moment, I decide that when I am grown up I will never, ever send a Christmas card to anyone. I will simply tell them to their face, Merry Christmas.

Mama hears Papa’s onslaught and swiftly comes into the room to rescue me. She moves me away telling Papa that those are all the cards he has to give out, and that he had better make the most of them. If necessary, tomorrow he can write out any further cards himself! She knows full well he is incapable of doing this and Papa falls correspondingly silent. Mama takes me into the lounge where Sis is now seated on the sofa watching television. It’s already eight o'clock and way past bed time for English children, but England does not exist at 51 Crescent Road. This is Spanish territory, and English rules do not apply. Sis and I go to bed when Mama and Papa themselves are ready to go to bed and not a moment before, even if this means midnight. On this one occasion, not being English comes with wonderful benefits.  As well as an early Christmas gift, Mama also produces a box of chocolates called Milk Tray, and I am in food heaven. The day’s distressful events surrounding those rotten Christmas cards are momentarily forgotten as I join Sis on the sofa and pick out my favourite chocolates from the assortment spread out before me. I particularly like the ones with a nut or toffee centre, so make sure to devour those before anyone else gets to them.   

But sometimes I accidentally take a chocolate with a centre I intensely dislike, like a coffee or strawberry cream, and when I do that I discreetly stick the chocolate back together with saliva and put it right back in the box. With a bit of luck, no-one will even notice that it and I have already had a close encounter, I tell myself. Wishful thinking. Just like our school Headmaster, Mr Quinnel who claims to have eyes in the back of his head (see post Hello Shame), a Mama is all-knowing and all-seeing. She spots me expertly gluing back together a strawberry cream whirl with the usual dose of saliva, and as I am about to return this unwanted jewel back to its rightful home amongst its other unappreciated counterparts, she jumps up from her end of the sofa and snatches the chocolate from my hand. Stop that right now! Do you have any idea how disgusting this behaviour is? How would you like to pop a coffee whirl into your mouth, only to realise that it has already been bitten into and glued back together with saliva? Mama is of course right. Only later do we comprehend that chocolate boxes in England come with explanatory labels detailing the different centres within, thereby eliminating the need for saliva glue.The intelligence of these English never ceases to amaze.

I am still in chocolate heaven, but not for long. Papa had not had his last say with us on this painful day. Now he scolds Sis and I for speaking in English with one another as we huddle together on the sofa, eating chocolates and arguing with one another in a mixture of Spanish and English all jumbled up. Papa tells us in a very forceful tone, en esta casa se habla español, y solo español! In this house we speak Spanish and only Spanish! How can he not understand that Sis and I have now been in England for just over three years, and that sometimes we cannot simply find the words in Spanish? I defiantly attempt to argue with him in English, but it serves no purpose. Papa directs his sternest gaze at me, and in doing so, reiterates a truth so terrible that it sends tremors through my little body; Spanish blood flows in your veins, and whether you like it or not everyone that looks at you notices straight away that you are not English. You are not, and never will be English! Papa has just reinforced what I felt walking home from school earlier in the day, clutching my solitary Christmas Card and suffocated by the sad realization that I am not and never will be one of them (see post Hello Shame).This is all too much for me, and I run upstairs to the bedroom throwing myself onto the empty bed that I share with Sis. 

A relentless cascade of tears gush from within me. First Papa scolds me for not writing his cards in English, then for speaking in English. Then he tells me that the English will never accept me as one of them, that I will never fit in. How can he say such terrible things? Does Papa not understand how much his words hurt? Papa is changing, and I do not like it. This is an almost cruel side to him that I have never seen before. Perhaps he was already like this in Spain, but I never noticed because I was surrounded by a sea of family; Mama, Mama's Mama; Grandma Filomena, Mama's Papa's Mama; Great Grandma Celia, plus a multitude of aunts, uncles and cousins. Here in England, it's just Mama, Papa, Sis and myself. At that moment I am blissfully unaware that the kind and wonderful Papa that I knew, the one that brought me the doll at the Feria  in Andalusia with the last of his coins (see post Meet The Family), the same one that I insisted upon marrying when I grow up has gone forever. In his place is a person whom I do not recognize. 

My thoughts quickly flit to Sis, and I realize how blessed she is within the confines of her innocent four-year-old existence. The wave of sadness does not wash over her as it does me, as I contemplate the life I had before this one (see post Watching The English Part III). She does not have within her the mountains, the beach, nor the warm Atlantic waters of Tenerife as I do. I want to return to my beautiful Island with the majestic Teide volcano silently watching over me just as it did on the day I was born. But I slowly comprehend that this life has vanished forever. Worn down by the multiple distresses of the day and eyes brimming over with tears, I kneel on the floor besides the bed, and with clasped hands pour out my heavy heart: Sweet Jesus, turn me into a little bird so that I can fly away from here. Take me to a place where Papa does not frighten me, and where I am not ashamed to say that my name is Maria del Carmen. My tears are soon spent, and exhausted by the torrent of emotions I lay down on the bed fully clothed. After a short while I have fallen into a deep sleep. Mama does not awake me to undress for bed that evening, she understands that prolonging a distressful day serves no useful purpose and simply covers me with blankets. 

That night Great Grandma Celia pays me a visit. Long departed for The Other Side (see post Share The Moon), she returns to me in my dreams and tells me to dry my tears, spread my wings and learn to fly. My wish will eventually be granted, but it will not be tomorrow nor the day after. Neither will it be in a manner which I would have ever imagined. Deeply immersed in this nocturnal reunion, I sit upright in bed and take refuge in Great Grandma Celia's warm arms. Her familiar aroma takes me back to those childhood moments spent in her care as Mama and Mama's Mama toiled in the fields to put food on the table, and suddenly I feel more homesick than ever. I miss my island and I miss everyone there, I tell her, I miss my aunts, I miss my uncles, I miss my cousins and I especially miss Mama's Mama, Grandma Filomena. Great Grandma Celia gently strokes my hair as I speak, I miss them also my child, she tells me.  A full moon shines majestically outside the window, and from it emanates a shaft of moonlight that penetrates the bedroom illuminating everything within; Great Grandma Celia's long silvery hair falls around her shoulders like a shining halo. So this is what angels look like, I think to myself. This same moon is also shimmering far away, over my island above Grandma Filomena and everybody else that I have left behind; together we can gaze up and contemplate the same heavenly body suspended high in the sky above all of us. Sharing The Moon in this way feels warm and reassuring, and suddenly I realise that we are not so far away from one another after all.

                                             

  

Next post: Sunday 12.02.2018: Goodbye Share The Moon



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.

Carry On Christmas Cards

Arriving home from school I turn the key in the front door, and suddenly the air is filled with the wonderful scent of a Mama at home. The aroma of coffee and food all waft together to create a warm and cosy feel which already greets me in the corridor. Today is one of those marvelous days when Mama is not working at Warley Hospital, so she is home on this sad afternoon when I return from school. Mama immediately notes the dejected look on my face, and after telling her what happened in class today I show her the solitary Christmas card from my teacher (see post Hello Shame). Mama envelopes in her warm and welcoming arms, gently strokes my dark way hair and tells me that they are just silly bits of card which don’t really mean very much, real feelings are spoken out aloud face-to-face. I know that Mama is trying to make me feel better, but it really does not work and sensing my lingering sadness she tells me that she has just the thing for me and disappears from the kitchen only to return a few seconds later with something in her hand: a Christmas gift. It's not yet Christmas, Mama tells me, but in lieu of my sadness I can open this single gift ahead of time, in fact straight away. And I proceed to wipe away my tears and do just that, turning the package over to read the label on the underside; it’s from Nanny Robbie.

Nanny Robbie is Mrs Robinson and our elderly next-door neighbour-but-one, who lives two doors down on the left. She told Sis and I when we met her on the very first day at our new home in 51 Crescent Road, that we could call her Nanny as we had left our own Nanny far away in Tenerife when we moved to England (see post Toast And Television). Sis and I are very grateful to Nanny Robbie for her kindness, we both feel very alone here in England and can do with all the love and affection we can get. Mama tells me that Nanny Robbie came by today to deliver her gifts for Sis and I, and that this one is marked for me. Mama also tells me that I am already nine-years-old, and that we both know that Father Christmas and The Three Wise Men are wonderful stories, but that the Christmas gifts are really from people that love you very much and want to remember you on this special day. We must just not share this critical piece of knowledge with Sis who is only four and playing with her dolls in the next room. She is still captivated by this story, so we must tell her that Santa, just like The Three Kings, is a very busy man and needs all the assistance he can get to deliver his incalculable number of gifts to all the children of the World and all at the same time. This is an exhausting job, and kind neighbours like Nanny Robbie giving a helping hand by helping to deliver some of the gifts, is extremely appreciated.

I am not really listening to Mama’s prepared explanation for Sis, because I have already ripped open my gift: It’s a cook book! The Children’s Learn To Cook Book. I keenly scan the pages and am in paradise. It’s full of photographs of wonderful cakes along with a thing called a recipe telling you how to bake them. This recipe gives you precise instructions on the quantities of ingredients you must use, how to mix them, and the oven temperatures you must use. No wonder I have been unable to turn out a decent cake in spite of my multiple attempts during my many afternoons at home alone after school (see post Home Alone)! All along I had just been randomly mixing together flour, sugar, milk, eggs, putting the gooey mixture into the oven at whatever temperature happened to take my fancy at that particular moment, and ending up with no cake, rather an equally gooey, but just hotter mess. With The Children’s Learn To Cook Book in my hand, things will now be different, I smugly tell myself. Suddenly I have forgotten about not receiving a single Christmas card from my class mates. The singular kindness of an elderly neighbour has helped to lift the lingering sadness of rejection earlier in the day.

But the ubiquitous Christmas Cards tradition permeating every nook and cranny of England on this Christmas month will not go away, because this infectious ritual also contaminates Papa in a most unpleasant way. He later comes home with his own pile of recently-purchased Christmas cards and excitedly informs Mama that he will send them out to a carefully memorised list of work colleagues. Papa wants to impress his co-workers with his intricate knowledge of all customs English, but there is a teeny problem standing in the way: He has never been to school, and neither for that matter has Mama, therefore making him unable to write out these greetings in English, nor in any other language for that matter. Papa says no-one must know this shameful truth, so I am to write out the greetings for him, and there and then I am handed a pile of cards with a pen for the execution of this task. An excited Papa sits next to me, besides himself at the thought of the wonderful cards he will soon be able to hand out on the ward to his work colleagues when he appears for his morning shift tomorrow, and each with their own personalised greeting.   

But I have never carried out this task before and end up in the most terrible mess. Papa has no written list of recipients, and I have never heard of most of these strange English names; Roger Penrose, Philip Whittaker, Sheila McCarthy, Lesley Cloony, so I misspell most of them and end up having to throw away those cards and start again. When I do finally get the names right, I misspell the greeting. Soon there is a mountain of cards piling up on the desk, and all full of either spelling mistakes or incorrect names. This pile easily outweighs another one besides it containing correctly written cards. This is too much for Papa who explodes in a fit of fury: Now looks what’s happened! all the cards have been used up and I still don’t have enough to hand out tomorrow. I can’t even go to the shop to buy some more because it’s past closing time! Can you do nothing right? What do you learn at this English school, if you cannot do something as simple as write out a greeting on a Christmas card! How can you be so useless? And I fall silent with shame as I listen to the tirade emanating from Papa. A Papa is meant to look after you and help you write out your cards, not the other way around as he is expecting me to do. I am beginning to hate Christmas cards, and I am also beginning to hate Christmas. At that moment, I decide that when I am grown up I will never, ever send a Christmas card to anyone. I will simply tell them to their face, Merry Christmas. And if I do not get the opportunity to do so, when we finally meet I will wish them A Happy New Year.

To be continued........

Next post January 28.1.2018: Little Bird





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.

Hello Shame

We are now just one short week away from The English Christmas, school is bursting with excitement and our Christmas holidays will soon begin (see post Welcome Christmas). I too am carried away on this wave of delirious expectation, but we momentarily put this euphoria aside as Mama now confronts her first emotional crisis at Warley Psychiatric and Geriatric Hospital. After working there only a short while as a Nursing assistant with the elderly patients, she comes home in tears: Mama has just had her first encounter with the most unwelcome of hospital visitors; death. Emily, her favourite patient has died. Mama is openly weeping and clearly incensed at the unfair fate that has befallen this elderly lady. ‘Why did Emily have to die? she was the sweetest and kindest soul, such a lovely and gentle person. Why could it not be that old bat Mrs Maynard who is always making our life on the ward so difficult? It’s so unfair! and she bursts into a fresh fit of sobbing. I am only nine and Sis is only four, and we do not really know how to comfort Mama, so we just silently hug her from either side and after a while the sadness that envelopes her recedes, and along with it the tears.

After wiping her eyes and gathering herself she tells us in her most jolly voice that we will also celebrate Christmas the English way with turkey, roast potatoes and mince pies to follow for desert. Mama is not sure how to make this all, but she will ask her fellow English work companions. Mama also tells us that on Christmas Day, each ward at the Hospital will hold their own party for the patients and staff. If we girls are good, Mama will take us along to her own ward, Jasmine to say hello to the staff meet the patients and enjoy the celebrations. A party! An English Christmas party with English Christmas food! Sis and I look at one other with glee. We cannot wait and don’t care if the patients we meet will have an average age of one-hundred and are all senile to boot. A party is a party even in a psychiatric hospital surrounded by the old, the mad and sometimes even both together. Mama’s grief is now spent, and she gathers herself and resumes her role as our Mama. And so concludes the episode of Emily’s passing, the first death Mama encounters in her work at Warley Hospital. Sis and I will never again have to comfort Mama in this way. Thereafter, Mama gradually becomes immune to the agonizing emotions evoked by this most frequent of unwanted caller.

,

It is now the last day of school before we finally break up for the Christmas Holidays, and the day passes in a flurry of wonderful non-academic activities. We open the school day with a special morning service, and after filing into the main hall in strict class order, we all gather to sing an assortment of special Christmas songs called Carols. I sit next Sylvia who is also sits next to me in class, and all around us are the rest of our classmates. Watching over us all are our class teachers, and watching over the teachers is the headmaster, Mr Quinnel so everyone is on their very best behaviour. Along with the same Christmas meal which everyone must eat (see post Welcome Christmas), everyone In England must also sing the same songs, but I don’t mind because I think they are beautiful and put me in a happy and festive mood; Away In A Manger, We Three Kings, O come All Ye Faithful , While Shepherds Watch Their Flocks By Night, Ding Dong Merrily On High. The names of the tunes resonate with familiarity in my nine-year-old mind, I already know the words to most off-by-heart and heartily sing along with the other children in the large hall. I take a sneak look at William, or Billy, as we call him who is seated not far away and look to see how his lips are moving as he sings along. He told me in class before we started to file into assembly hall that he would sing his own version of the Carols and proceeded to offer me a sneak preview: While Shepherds Watch Their Flocks By Night would become While Shepherds Wash Their Socks By Night, and We Three Kings Of Orient Are, Bearing Gifts We Travel Afar, would in turn become We Three Kings Of Orient Are, One In A Taxi, One In A Car and so on. 

 
It’s hard to see from where I am if he really is Washing His Socks By Night,or Travelling in A taxi Or In A Car as he said he would. In any case, I would never dream of doing such a thing. Billy does not realize that he is playing with fire. You see, Mr Quinnel is a man of many talents. As well as Headmaster, he also plays the piano at morning assembly and he is doing exactly this today. Mr Quinnel has told us children that he has eyes in the back of his head, so even if his back is turned to us as he plays the piano at the front of the school hall, he knows exactly what is happening behind him. No monkey stuff ! he sternely warns us all. If Mr Quinnel were to hear even a whiff of somebody washing their socks, or travelling by taxis or cars, that person would be toast. I already stand out enough with my dark skin, wavy dark hair and strange-sounding Spanish name; drawing any further attention to myself by singing the wrong words to sacred English Christmas songs is the last thing I would want to be doing. However, I cannot help but secretly admire Billy for his individuality as well as for his kissing skills. The kiss-chase game that I encountered at my first English school in Bloxham has now resumed, and even though Billy is not Richard, the boy with the cobalt-blue eyes with whom I shared that magical first kiss (see post This Lion Can Talk), he comes a good second. Once again, Billy likes me and I like Billy.

The classroom Christmas party has also now come and gone, and along with it vast consumed quantities of mince pies, sausage rolls and crisps. I am now beginning to wish that every school day was like this one. Finally, it is the turn of distributing the mountain of Christmas cards residing inside the school post box that have been accumulating since the post box was installed a few short weeks ago. This is the most exciting part of the school day, Mrs Bagley has encouraged us children to send out cards to one another and this is also exactly what I have done. Even though I secretly think that it is way more sensible to just greet everyone you pass with a simple Merry Christmas and save your wrists the enormous bother (see post Welcome Christmas), I have got into the English spirit and written out card to all of the girls in my class and a few of the boys. Just as the rest of my class mate, I am equally captivated by this new English ritual evolving before me. Two of the lucky children, Michael and Jane are selected for the important task of opening the post box and distributing out the cards. I wish it could be me, but I content myself with the probable mountain of cards that I will soon have piling up in front of me, I am expecting as many back as I sent out. And the distribution begins.

There goes Michael and Jane flitting from desk to desk, dropping their precious cargo in front of this and that fortunate recipient. Piles of cards slowly begin to accumulate on the desk in front of each child. Each child except me. Michael and Jane move deftly from one end of the classroom efficiently executing their task, passing me many times, but never stopping. Silently I squirm with discomfort as the excited squeals of my class mates fill the room; the growing mountain of cards in front of them sees no end. Soon the cards are almost distributed and still I have not received a single card. Finally, to my relief, Michael stops in front of my desk and deposits a single card in front of me with the name Marie on the envelope. My heart bursts with happiness, now I will also start to accumulate my own mountain of cards. But this does not happen. Within a few short minutes the entire contents of the post box have been delivered and my net sum of this task has been just one solitary card. I look around as the other children enthusiastically begin to rip open their precious bounty, and a wave of humiliation washes over me. Who was the one friend in the class that thought of me? at least there is one person that cares for me, I think to myself. I silently open the card to reveal its sender; no class mate, rather the card is from Mrs Bagley herself who has sent a card to every child in the class. 

Mrs Bagley glances at me as I look up after opening my card, and our eyes momentarily lock. She does not speak, but across the divide of the classroom separating her desk from mine, her gaze conveys a compassion and understanding which I am very grateful for. Just as when I turned up at school on the first day of term in Hot Pants and she said nothing (see post Hot Pants), Mrs Bagley makes it seem perfectly normal that one child in the class receives a solitary Christmas card, and that from the teacher, whilst everybody else is inundated with piles of cards from their class mates. Deep down we both know that this is not so. After school is over, I pick up my one card and walk the short journey home to 51 Crescent Road with this precious gift. Not a single class mate considered me worthy of a Christmas card. Not even Sylvia or Billy. This painful realization engulfs me in a heavy blanket of sadness weighed down with a mantle of shame. And slowly I begin to comprehend, that regardless of how well I speak their language or sing their songs in this Land Of The English, I have never have been and never will be one of them. The girl in the school register may have long ago been renamed Marie Garrido (see post A Girl Named Marie), but the girl that arrives home and turns the key in the front door is and always has been Maria del Carmen Garrido Sanz.

To be continued........

Next post January 14.1.2018:  Carry On Christmas Cards



 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.

Welcome Christmas

It's December 1972 and the demise of Papa's rabbits (see post Farewell Rabbits), along with the failed attempts at baking and frying (see posts Home Alone and English Breakfast), and the resulting burnt leg are all soon forgotten. This is because something way more excitement is waiting for us all around the corner, and this is called The English Christmas. In a faraway land called America, its thirty-seventh President, Richard Nixon has meanwhile just announced an escalation of hostilities between the United States of America and North Vietnam. Beginning December 18th, over 20,000 tons of bombs will fall on the cities of Hanoi and Haiphong. This and other equally monumental world events do not touch our lives, as the most English of celebrations unfolds before us at 51 Crescent Road.

Mama tells me that the English celebrate their Christmas on the twenty-fifth, the day after we have celebrated ours on the night of the twenty-fourth. On this day they will all eat a big meal with turkey, roast potatoes and lots of boiled vegetables. Everybody must eat the same meal and I cannot understand this; In Spain every family can choose to eat whatever they want. What happens if you want to be different and for example eat beef, chicken or even pork? I ask Mama, but she cannot give me a satisfactory answer. Perhaps if you dare to be different and stand out in this way, the neighbours might not talk to you in the same way that Mrs McCabe is not talking to Papa because he fried the rabbits (see post Farewell Rabbits). I can only conclude that, for the sake of English neighbourly accord, its best that everyone eats the same meal. Some families even go one stage further and eat their meal wearing silly papers crowns on their heads. Mama and I find this even more perplexing. Why do the English feel the need to dress up like children in this way? Is it to make themselves feel better because they must all eat the same meal?

At school, everyone seems to be getting very excited about the coming celebrations and our teacher, Mrs Bagley is getting us into the Christmas spirit by telling us that we will soon be putting up our own Christmas tree in the classroom and decorating the room with streamers. Lastly, we will be making our own Christmas cards to send out Merry Christmas greetings to everyone. I don’t really understand the excitement about Christmas cards, to me it feels like a pointless ritual, why can't everyone just say Merry Christmas out aloud to every person they pass? That way they could save their wrists from exhaustion, as well as doing their pockets a favour. These Christmas cards are not free! I do not however think I will share this thought with anyone, the shops are piled high with boxes of Christmas cards wherever you look, and I am beginning to realise that this ritual, just like The Tea Break (see post Watching The English Part I And II) is sacred and not to be messed around with.

As well as talking about the Christmas tree that we will put up and decorate, and the Christmas cards that we will be making to send out our exhausting Merry Christmas greetings, my class mates also talk amongst one another about a wonderous man called Father Christmas who delivers the English children their Christmas gifts which are all ripped open on Christmas day. So, on top of having their Christmas meal on a different day to us in Spain, the English children also get their presents on a different day and from a different person. I am used to getting my few Christmas presents on Reyes which falls on January 6^th, delivered by The Three Wise Men who travel together on camels from lands afar to deliver their carefully selected gifts to eagerly-awaiting children. In England, an old bearded old man is considered capable of doing the work of three, and he chooses as his mode of transport, not camels but a sledge pulled by reindeers. What a sensible chap I conclude looking out of the school window on this cold and dreary winter’s day, Father Christmas would be hard pressed to find camels to work with him in weather such as this. What puzzles me most however, is the manner in which Father Christmas chooses to deliver his gifts to the also-eagerly-awaiting English children; he slides down the chimney in the dead of night, sack of presents in tow. This is indeed bizarre behaviour, and for an old man like Father Christmas a rather undignified way of entering a home.

The English and their Christmas traditions are perplexing, I think to myself. They wish one another Merry Christmas via written messages on multiple bits of paper when they could just as well say it out aloud whenever they meet, they must all religiously eat the same meal otherwise the neighbours won’t talk to them, and the gifts are delivered by an old man sliding down a chimney in the dead of night. Why don’t they just pension off the old dear and give the job to someone a bit younger who might actually realise that a house has something called a door for gaining entry? This philosophical contemplation is however short-lived, for my attention is soon diverted to an object of even greater fascination. Along with the usual food supplies from the weekly expedition to the nearby Co-op supermarket, Mama brings home some nuts, and along with it something that I have never seen in my short life; a nutcracker. I cannot comprehend why someone would create such an obsolete device when Mother nature has an abundance of its own nutcrackers, simply called stones.  

On many a warm Tenerife evening, I distinctly recall gathering together with the other children in our street on the pavement outside our homes, and there we would enthusiastically crush almonds with such stones. Whilst the Mamas made themselves comfortable seated on nearby chairs and stools, simultaneously supervising us and exchanging their village news with one another, we children happily cracked away. Admittedly, the stones did come with certain disadvantages, such as the occasional crushed finger accompanied by lots of wailing. This would then lead onto heated arguments between the respective Mamas as to which child was at fault, almond crusher, or owner of crushed fingers. It may take the Mamas all evening to resolve the dispute, by which time we children will have blissfully resumed our nut crushing. Many a long-standing family feud has begun over a simple nut. 

It suddenly dawns on me that the nutcracker in my hand is, after all, a magnificent instrument of world peace; no stones equals no crushed fingers, and this means no heated arguments between the Mamas. This is turn equals harmonious village tranquility. By golly, the foresight and wisdom of these English will never cease to amaze me! I soon however also forget about the nutcracker, because a few days later Mama returns from her work shift at Warley Psychiatric and Geriatric Hospital in a distressed state. She has just had her first encounter with the most unwelcome of hospital visitors; death. Emily, her favourite patient has died.

To be continued...


Next post: 31st December: Hello Shame


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.

Farewell Rabbits

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 Toast And 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 Girl With Television). 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: 17th December: 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.