The magpies were cranking up a sound this morning. This time it was the presence of a cat that alarmed them.
After an enjoyable visit from my friend Dominic I set off for Raynes Park via Wimbledon and back. In Mostyn Road I overheard two gentlemen taking their leave of each other. In response to one person’s goodbye his companion said ‘now you take care’. Now this is a farewell that really puzzles me. Quite common these days, it seems to imply that if you don’t do what it says something unpleasant will happen to you. Whilst anyone would be advised to take normal sensible precautions, for example when crossing the road, am I really alone or indeed most fortunate in getting up in the morning imagining all will be well? This despite what follows.
My chosen route today was along Worple Road where the trolley buses once ran. As I walked past the various hill roads leading up to The Ridgeway and consequently Wimbledon Common, I felt reminiscence coming on. Sometime around 1950 when Chris and I were still at primary school, if you were prepared to walk home, you could spend your bus fare on a bag of broken biscuits from the old style family grocer in The Broadway, or, in season, a pomegranate from a fruit and veg stall in Russell Road. You ate the pomegranite seeds with a pin carried for the purpose. If you wanted an ice cream from De Marco’s alongside the stall that meant walking home two days in a row and managing not to spend the first day’s fare on the first day. One day Chris and I for some reason whilst walking home decided to investigate Spencer Hill.
Some way up the hill, in someone’s garden, was a tree with an inviting hollow area at the top of the trunk. I decided to climb up to it and have a look. Chris followed. As I entered the bowl shape in the bole I heard a rather angry buzzing sound. In an instant I was covered in bees. I’d like to say I was out of there like a shot. Unfortunately Chris was bringing up the rear and seemed to have some difficulty in understanding either ‘bees’ or ‘get down’ or all of it. He didn’t seem to grasp that he was in my way. I yelled incessantly until Chris twigged and leapt from the bottom branch. I was then out of Spencer Hill and onto a bus like a shot. Having, of course, spent my fare I had no money. I’m not quite sure what happened about that, but I do remember the concern of the bus conductor for this snivelling wreck with his head in a swarm of bees occupying the first seat on his vehicle. (click for what did happen, now I’ve remembered) Chris must have made his own way home, but I was no caring elder brother at that point.
To this day I remember sitting on a stool with Mum picking bee stings and the dead creatures out of my head. I can still see them crawling dazedly inside my fairisle jumper. If ever I lose my hair and there are pitted marks in the scalp I bet they’ll be from those bees.
Walking along Worple Road on this very hot day I was struck by a heavily pregnant young Asian woman, her right hand resting comfortingly on her bulge. She didn’t hit me, I just mean I noticed her. Having passed her I stopped and waited and told her that I had been born in July and that summer was a good time to be born. She looked as if it wasn’t a good time to be carrying so I thought I would give her some encouragement. She beamed, thanked me, and said that she too had been born in July.
Naturally, after an hour and a half, I felt I had earned a Martin Cafe fry-up, so I stopped for one. On the wall is a large, rather special, framed print which I felt sure I recognised. I spoke to the younger of the two men (I imagine father and son) who seem to run the establishment. In answer to my question he was able to reply that yes, it was Venice. It did not, however, have a family connection. He had bought it from the junk shop next door because he had liked it but didn’t know its provenance. I was, therefore, rather pleased to be able to tell him it was from one of John Ruskin’s marvellous illustrations to his seminal work ‘The Stones of Venice’.
Hoping he would retain the information and find it as interesting as I had, I walked back to Links Avenue contemplating the increasing humidity and the telltale little heaps of sand appearing from the joins in the paving stones which herald the onset of flying ants. We are promised a thunderstorm.
My main time for listening to music is when I am ironing. Today, whilst listening to Tchaikovsky’ symphony no. 2 (Little Russian), played by the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra conducted by Kirill Karabits, I pressed, among other things, a beautifully embroidered lace trimmed linen tablecloth and napkins, thinking of the life of the woman who had made them. Jackie has a collection of this wonderfully intricate needlework given to her by various clients during her time as a Home Help some thirty years ago. Many of these people were elderly women who had lost their men in the first world war. A generation of young fiances, husbands and fathers wiped out with no possible replacements. These women, many still wearing engagement but no wedding rings, lived their lives alone, some of their handiwork never leaving their bottom drawers. They were the true casualties of that first time the world went mad.
We had salad again this evening, using as always, a tablecloth and napkins possibly 100 years old. I had a bottle of Wells’ Bombardier beer, no doubt named after Billy, the famous boxer. He was before Errol’s time, but I was fortunate enough to know this grand old gentleman in his later years.