2.00am and up he comes. Up the stairs, yelling his head off. He’ll be dripping wet. Loves the rain. Loves jumping on the bed beside me, wet as a sheep due for the spin cycle.
Wet cats do dry out quickly. Damp sheets need time.
All is forgiven. That soul warming vibration of a cat’s purr. Claws kneeding, piercing the sheets. True love.
Cats hear stuff we don’t. Tiniest whispie rustles in the grass. A small being conducting his quiet day, or night, under our couch. Best, when His Fluffkins, upstairs, is zonked out, not of this world, dreaming of the fridge door, while downstairs, soundlessly, I place a loaded cat dish on the floor.
And from upstairs Whoomph!
Just wondering, does he see me as adorable as I find him? He knows the sound of my car, From his ‘jungle’ of long grass he will emerge, calling with delight. To see me? Prospect of a treat? Then to plot the next 2.00am dripping and plodding over my bed. Who needs a decent night’s sleep when . . .
I can remember I had started school. My mum, sister and I lived with our Nana and Pop in Herne Bay. Dad was away at the war. Pop would sit in front of the valve radio and a little man inside the radio told us about the weather, the latest news – always including progress on the war. Hissing and crackling the BBC was rebroadcast on our local radio and we listened in our ‘sitting room’ – I can still hear Churchill’s oratory. My Pop would grunt and tell ‘This is BBC London’ what Churchill should do.
Today was a happy day. At last my Dad was to come home from the war. Nana was skipping and chirping about the house. My Mum was doing mother stuff – “Don’t you get your clean shirt . . .” – Pop had an all-day grin. Today was a Happy Day.
“It’s here!” An army lorry had pulled up at the bottom of the drive. Soldiers, now mates-for-life shouted farewells. Today was a happy day and Nana and my Mum were crying.
A strange man, a man I vaguely remembered from along time ago jumped off the lorry, caught his kit bag thrown over the side and walked up the drive. Hugs, chatter, more hugs – Pop – “What are you doing outside you silly buggers? Cup of tea Jim?” My Dad was christened Lewin Richard Hart, pronounced Jim. Don’t ask, it’s a family thing.
Memories of our first family Christmas Eve all together. Dad had that artistic flourish. A Christmas tree, decorations, lights, and of course checking Pop’s ‘chimbley’ for Santa to clamber down. We now had the most vivid images of Santa and his sleigh. Good childen got presents. On a recent visit to a ‘department store Santa’ I reassured the Old Guy with the beard I had been the ‘Goodest boy in the street.’ It is important to stress these things. Grown-ups can get it so wrong.
Christmas decorations done. It was past bed time. Nup, not going to bed. Gonna stay up all night . . . until
My Dad must have had very good hearing. “Listen”, Santa’s sleigh had landed on a nearby roof, “and children who are not in bed . . .”
Zoom! Clean teeth, pyjamas, squeeze eyes shut.
And eventually sleep.
Next morning – our poor parents. And grandparents. No doubt they were up late enjoying a Christmas Eve chat. Maybe even a tot o’ whatever – although I don’t remember alcohol being a part of our lives. Hellishly early next morning, before wake-oclock, excited children, out of bed bubbling, chattering, tumble into the room with the open fireplace and there it all was. Sooty footprints, presents! wrapping paper, shrieks, Santa’s drink scoffed.
Dressing gowns, brave smiles, our mother and father witnessing our first ever together family Christmas.
Damn the war. Damn that I was denied my father for so long, in those important years.
Today, Anzac Day, and as I have been for the past few years, close to tears.
My Pop an early riser, lit the coal range for the day. The kitchen warmed up. Then we kids got up. Some hours later and moaning because of the indecent hour my Nana got up. Nana was a party girl. Stayed up late.
Nana was the scone maker.
Cup of tea, toast and bit by bit Nana lit up, started chatting, became nice to know.
Today, visitors. Cups of tea, best behaviour. And scones.
These days we follow, step by step, with scientific precision, the recipe in our Edmunds Cook book. (reprinted 2012) My Nana however was quite chatty when making scones – a pinch of this, coupla cups of that, oooh I’ll add a bit more water . . . And whup! into the coal range. In later years I found that the gauge on the door, when working, gave the temperature, not, as my Pop said, an indicator of how good we kids were the day before.
Nana’s chatter would continue, there was the best table cloth, polished cutlery, napkins, chatter, sugar bowl, chatter and “Oooh! The scones!” Some days just a bit over, other just right. The scones were always perfect. Because Nana made them.
In later years my sister asked Nana – scone maker supreme – if she could have the recipe.
Nana stopped, looked blank – what recipe? Scones happened. Like riding a bike. Maybe in the beginning . . .
We kids knew there were privileges in having scones at Nana’s place. The butter could be laid on just a bit more thickly. Our parents would look the other way.
At home the was a Proper Spread of Butter. Not that we could not afford a wee excess. It was Good Manners. When pressed my Mum would say, “Well, uhm, too much will make you ill, and, uhm, that’s all there is to it. So.”
Albert is the guy Cock ‘o the Roost Macho And uncontested in his domain
The girls Well, chooks Common garden chooks Do chook things In their rural lifestyle block way. Laying eggs Laying eggs in hard to find places Hanging around the door making chook noises
Coupla times a day chook noises bring food Sometimes a door is left open They winkle their inside Chockle their way past the cat Hope, curiosity, patience plus Unmentionable things on the floor
Albert knows nothing of daylight saving Cocka doodle doos, “I’m here” To cheer up the small community of farmlets No flowers, chocolates or love poems Lust is lust and on on a whimsy . . .
The sun shines The sun sets The planet turns Eggs collected And we, visitors, Polite urban dwellers Coo gratitude Wonder
4.00am. I am half awake. A blinding flash immediately followed by massive roll of thunder. Both cats sit up, one leaps off the bed and disappears. I know I am to blame for this. Sunday morning, breakfast, cat treats and all is forgiven. Morning walk, a calm blue spring day, a smattering of cloud, I ride my E Bike to our local cheese factory passing cows snoozing in huddled groups. The pasture now is rich and green ~ I ponder on a lunch. I’m hungry.
Auckland family, “It’s gone on too long, And when we can we’ll be up and gone!” The young ones – don’t know where, I don’t know when. But so good when we catch again.
Nods and muted smiles, our daily tasks Obscured by muffled sounds and masks.
Clock forward, again in darkness waking, Consoled by longer days and baking. My partner, “Gee, I’m an hour slow, I should have left an hour ago!”
Front porch in sun, the birds and me The cat asleep, my cup of tea.
Morning walk, breakfast, dishes done. One step, two steps, a rhythm best done By feel rather than the count, Connecting steps to the street above And into sun. A friendly “Hi!” A local, Masked, to me unrecognized. “Oh Hi!” That unseen smile, it means a lot – Covid Caution ~ then the tulips.
David in Pen and Pics 