Joe's Roses

Just one of the many things I miss now that both my mum and dad are dead, especially as an only child, is having no one to check my personal history with. No one to verify my memories, or to put me right, about my recollection of the stories of my parents’ respective adventures as children and young adults; about our family expeditions and celebrations; about my own achievements and misdemeanours. The day after my mum’s funeral a cousin and I shared a few stories. Being three years older than me she remembered the bonfire night when a Jumping Jack landed in my welly and burnt my leg, even though I did not.  With all this in mind what follows is, as far as I can remember, events on a summer’s day in 1964, but possibly 1963 or maybe 1965.

I am five years old, possibly four, or even six. No not six, definitely younger, I’m sure, well I’m pretty sure… I’m excited as the town carnival will be processing down our street, complete with queen and attendants. We live in a semi-detached, two bedroom house with a bright red front door and a well-tended front garden with a small lawn and some flowering plants. The space at the back is neat, but more playground than showcase, complete with a swing kindly donated by cousins (different from than the one who reminded me of my firework adventure) on their migration to New Zealand. There is a shed for tools and a coal bunker that one of my friends once hid in giving my mum a fright when from the kitchen window she saw his coal dusted head appear from the hatch. There are rhubarb plants growing in wild abundance by the back fence. Maybe for tea that night we had one of my mum’s wonderful fruit pies completed with cream or custard.

This particular morning I’m playing on the front lawn in old clothes before going in for lunch (we called it dinner then) after which I’ll change into a pretty summer frock. I’m playing hop scotch, or something like it, on the path at the side of the house. The house nearest to me is not the one we are attached to and the two paths between our No 9 and the neighbouring dwelling is separated by a flower bed belonging to No 11. The owner is a widower in his sixties named Joe. No 7, the house with which we share a wall is owned by Joe’s sister and her husband; Mr and Mrs Corns. I’m not sure why I am on first name terms with the brother but not the sister. Before my grandfather bought the house - which he left to my dad, also an only child – in the mid-1950s the house belonged to the parents of Joe and Mrs Corns. Neither of the siblings have any children and treat me kindly with indulgence. In the middle of a game I lose my balance and fall into one of Joe’s beautiful rose bushes. I am picking myself up and dusting myself down, fortunately only shaken and not really hurt, just a scratch or two, as Joe comes through the gate from his back garden, watering can in hand. He berates me for the damage I have done. The telling off, although probably not exactly this wording, goes something like this.

‘You silly girl. How could you be so clumsy? I’ll set the police on you, I will, I will’.

I am shocked by the shouting which is strange behaviour from the usually quiet and shy, if occasionally a little grumpy, Joe. I’m not used to it at home either; my mum rarely raises her voice and it takes just a look from my dad to stop me misbehaving. I manage, I think, to mumble an apology before I run through my own gate and into the safety of home via the back kitchen. I spend what’s left of the morning in the house, saying not a word of what has happened to either of my parents.  

I am relieved that Joe is not around as the carnival starts and as it’s been a few hours since the rose crushing incident I think, I hope, I have evaded arrest. In my head I hear my dad saying ‘here they come’ as the carnival queen’s float rounds the corner at the end of Briar Road. He might have even swung me up to sit on his shoulders. He did that a lot.  My initial delight is spoilt by the terror I feel when I notice the four policemen on motorbikes. They are, of course, an escort for the royal vehicle but I am convinced they have come for me. This means I will not be drifting off to sleep at bedtime cuddled up under my own covers in my own bed, whilst counting the aeroplanes on the wallpaper, in my own lovely bedroom, but rather, I’ll be in a prison cell before the afternoon is over. I begin to shake and to cry and, if my memory serves me correctly, I wet myself. If I am on my dad’s shoulders, it isn't the only time I peed or puked on him.

***

Even though I was not taken into custody I didn’t see much more of the carnival that day. Or at least I have no memory of more of it. To be honest, I’m not clear on what happened next, my mum would recall I’m sure. As a family of communicators I know my parents would have talked it all through with me; explained the (in)significance of my crime whilst at the same time offering explanations as to why Joe was so upset with me. Whatever, I do remember that we lived in that house at least a couple more years and that Joe and I renewed our friendship following our own small war of the roses.